


Protective Measures

by SEF



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Angst, F/M, Female Character of Color, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, LGBTQ Character, M/M, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-07-18
Updated: 2002-07-17
Packaged: 2017-10-10 15:52:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 119,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SEF/pseuds/SEF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Richie romances Angie Burke, his childhood friend, Duncan labors to establish a new "family" made up of Amanda and Richie. But Czeslaw, an ancient immortal, appears on the scene threatening Amanda's life and inadvertently evoking all of Richie's most primal fears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story follows Acceptance of Conflict, but you will likely understand the events related here without reading that earlier work.
> 
> Warning: This story deals with a mature theme, though it is not erotica. You will find some offensive language and some brief love scenes. The level of violence is typical (though not especially graphic) for a Highlander story. If you're a minor, or an adult who might be troubled by these things, please give this story a pass.
> 
> Acknowledgments: Kat Parsons and Sandra McDonald beta-read this story over the course of three years—surely a qualification for sainthood. Janine Shahinian and Mary Panza also provided vital feedback for much of the story. I'm more grateful than I can say to all four women. I must also thank the many readers who remarked on the interim stages. Their comments and gentle proddings kept me going to the bitter end. All errors and opinions remain, of course, my own.

 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


"In 1980, when post-traumatic stress disorder was first included in the diagnostic manual, the American Psychiatric Association described traumatic events as_ 'outside the range of usual human experience.' _Sadly, this definition has proved to be inaccurate."  [my italics]        —Judith Herman, M.D., _Trauma and Recovery_

 

 

_Seattle, December 4, 1996_

 

"There's an immortal in town."

Ah, Duncan noted with satisfaction, _that _got Richie's attention. He strongly suspected that his student's mind had been on a certain brunette—not his fencing technique—for most of the afternoon.

"Who?" Richie asked.

"I don't know what name he's going by these days. I ran into him in Chicago fifty—no, sixty—years ago." The Highlander stepped to the left and lunged at the younger man's chest. Richie scooted across the dojo floor, easily evading the attack.

"He was calling himself Chet," Duncan said. "Short for Czeslaw. The last name was something Polish." Richie lunged, and Duncan parried. "I'm not sure if he was Polish, though."

"So how do you know he's here?"

"Amanda bumped into him on a trip to her, uh, 'bank.' He was coming out of a bar called Draco's. She made a quick exit."

"Draco's?" Richie dropped his guard, and Duncan barely managed to avoid injuring him. "Mac, that's a gay bar."

"Yeah, he's gay."

Richie stopped as if to let that thought sink in. "Do you think he's hunting?"

"I don't know." Duncan lowered his katana and wiped at the sweat on his upper lip. "When I knew him, he was a labor organizer." He smiled slightly. "You _had _to be tough to be a union man in those days. Chet never challenged me, but we always met in public."

"What's he look like?"

Duncan smiled. "Like a longshoreman. Big, tall, dark hair."

Richie nodded, apparently taking note of the information, before he lifted his sword again. "OK, well, I guess I better practice while I can."

Duncan was pleased by Richie's common-sense reaction. "So far as we know, he's not after any of us. Just stay out of his way."

"That's what I intend to do," Richie responded. "Believe me."

***

An hour later Duncan collapsed onto one of the wooden benches against the dojo wall and breathed a deep sigh of relief. These days he had to push himself and Richie harder and harder in order to keep honing the young immortal's skills.

Once he had enjoyed sparring with Richie, but now the memory of the dark quickening distracted him, always fluttering at the edge of his consciousness like something black and animated in his peripheral vision. He was in control of his actions, had been in control for many months, but nonetheless the worrisome specter was always there.

He wiped his face on the hem of his T-shirt. If Richie had no trepidations about working out on the dojo floor with the same man who had nearly killed him there, what was the point of voicing his own concerns? He'd worried over the question ceaselessly, and had found no solution but to accept Richie's recent offer of forgiveness and move on. His student didn't have the luxury of time. Richie had a new sword, and he had to learn how to use it before he was called upon to face another immortal.

Duncan couldn't escape the feeling that Richie was uncomfortable too, but his discomfort seemed to have another source entirely: he was embarrassed. During several emotional confrontations the month before, Richie had described the physical abuse he had endured in foster care. He had also confessed to killing two immortals after Duncan left for France. Now Richie apparently regretted Duncan's new awareness of his past.

Duncan rubbed at his neck. Richie trained with him, dropped by for the occasional meal, and chattered about safe subjects. What more could he expect from a 22-year-old man? He'd been far less communicative than Richie at that age. He'd just have to bide his time until Richie was ready to talk seriously again. Perhaps by then he'd know what it was Richie needed to hear.

In the meantime, he had pledged to himself that he wasn't going to hurt Richie, no matter what. The effort to keep working at full intensity without ever drawing blood was exhausting him.

A sudden tingle up his spine warned that another immortal was near. Duncan reached for his katana just before a whiff of perfume announced Amanda's arrival. He relaxed back onto the bench and leaned against the wall with a smile, admiring the view of Amanda's long legs.

Amanda breezed into the dojo on the breath of a cold, wet wind. Despite the weather, she wore a clingy electric-blue dress and impossibly high heels. She carried a large black umbrella and a colorful Christmas-shopping bag from an exclusive uptown boutique.

"Ooo, Duncan," she purred. "You've been playing with your sword again."

"Amanda," he greeted her laconically.

She set the umbrella and the bag down on the bench and crossed her arms as she examined the Highlander. "You're all sweaty," she complained.

He reached to pull her closer, but Amanda stepped out of his grasp. She opened the shopping bag, extracted a tiny black lace teddy, and held it up against her dress. "I was going to model this for you, but in your present condition you'd ruin it."

"True," Duncan agreed, and he sat back to gauge her reaction.

Amanda tapped her foot and considered him thoughtfully. "I suppose we'll have to save it for later," she said.

Duncan scowled.

"Of course, a little sweat can't hurt an immortal," Amanda said brightly. In one single elegant movement, she reached for the hem of her dress and pulled it over her head. She dangled the dress from one finger before draping it languidly over the bench. The same finger inserted itself in the arm of Duncan's sweaty tank top and tugged him up off the bench.

"What are those mats for, anyway?" she inquired sweetly.

"To break your fall, m'lady," Duncan growled as he tumbled her backward onto the blue workout mat. Despite his best efforts, Amanda managed to end up on top of him. Just as Duncan reached to pull her lips toward his, he felt the buzz of another immortal.

"Oh, damn," he muttered. "I forgot." He tried to sit up, but Amanda wouldn't budge. She smiled up at a freshly showered Richie, who was frozen with embarrassment at the top of the stairs.

"Richard," Amanda cooed. "Care to join us?"

Richie laughed. "Uh, no thanks, Amanda. I've _got _a girlfriend." He shouldered his gym bag and headed quickly down the stairs. "Sorry, Mac," he leered as he pushed through the double doors. "I'll lock the door behind me."

***

"So who's Richard's new girlfriend?" Amanda inquired an hour or so later in Duncan's bed.

"Jealous?" Duncan teased.

"Well, I might be losing my charms if he can think about another woman when I'm, um..."

"_Displaying _all your charms?" he suggested helpfully.

"Exactly."

"Her name's Angie. He's known her since they were kids in elementary school."

"Oh, puppy love," Amanda said dismissively.

"Mmm, I don't think so." Duncan slid his hands around Amanda's waist and pulled her closer. "It may have been once. But it seems serious now."

"Richard _serious?_"

"He's showing all the signs."

"Pity." Amanda sighed and snuggled against Duncan's chest. "A good-looking boy like that shouldn't be settling down at his age."

Duncan chuckled. "Well, I doubt anyone's settling down. They're kids. They're in love. It's a new experience for Richie."

"That sort of experience doesn't usually turn out well for immortals."

He frowned. "In four years, this is the first time I've seen him with a girl who really cares about him. Let him have a love affair. He deserves some happiness."

"Don't we all," Amanda murmured.

"Richie's had it harder than most." Amanda didn't know the full extent of the mistreatment Richie had suffered as a child, and it wasn't Duncan's place to tell her. "He needs this, Amanda."

"I'm just saying that true love can hurt as much as it helps," she pointed out. "Immortals may live a long time, but we aren't any better at love than anyone else. Worse, probably."

"Oh, really?" Duncan lifted her arm and kissed the inside of her wrist. "Look at us. We've been happy together for centuries."

"Yes, we're both ancient and neither of us has been married even once. And you had the most normal upbringing of any immortal I know." Her tone was uncharacteristically solemn, and Duncan realized with a jolt that Amanda wasn't talking about Richie at all.

"Amanda, dear heart," he said, "I'd marry you in a minute if you'd have me." He kissed the inside of her elbow and started further up her arm. "But you keep running away." He cupped her face in his hands and looked for an answer to his proposal.

Amanda sighed. "I need to keep my options open," she said airily. "You never know when someone better might come along."

Duncan smiled and bent to kiss her neck. He heard Amanda sigh softly as she fell into his embrace.

***

"It's just about ready, don't you think?"

"It'll do." Willa Edmondson surveyed her domain with a critical eye. The store's plate glass windows, broken three weeks earlier, had long since been replaced. Rewiring, cleaning up paint spills, and replacing inventory had taken considerably longer.

Willa turned to Richie. "Assuming we have no more night visitors."

"She won't be back," he said blandly. In fact, she wouldn't. Richie had killed Katya Turgeneva here, precipitating the quickening that had so devastated the hardware store.

Though Duncan had offered to reimburse Willa for the cost of repairs, she had refused—to Richie's secret relief. He didn't want Mac picking up his bills. And, as it turned out, Willa hadn't needed the Highlander's help. Her many friends and associates, especially the members of the New Home AME Church, had turned out in droves to help with the clean-up. Insurance had covered most of the costs. Though the assessor had been mightily puzzled by the cause of the destruction, he agreed that it certainly wasn't arson.

"Uh-huh," Willa said skeptically, but she didn't press the issue any further. "What's your class schedule like these days?"

"I can skip it. I know you want to open before Christmas."

"You'll do no such thing," Willa said firmly. "I've run this store by myself for plenty of years." She smiled. "I'll just leave the heavy lifting for you to do after school."

"OK by me. But really, I can be here most of the time. Classes don't take that long."

"_Studying_ does. What's the point of taking classes if you aren't going to pass them?" Willa asked.

"Sheesh, Willa," Richie complained, "you're worse than Mac!" He was about to recite all the virtues of a good education that Duncan had drilled into him lately when he was interrupted by a tapping on the front window.

"That'll be your Angie," Willa said. "I'll let her in on my way out."

Richie trailed Willa up the narrow aisle that led from the back counter to the entry. Angie slipped in with a smile as Willa buttoned up her coat.

"It's raining pretty hard," Angie told the older woman. "I could drive you home."

"Thank you, honey, but I'm just stepping across to the church for an Advent service," Willa said. "I'll get home safe and dry." She turned to Richie. "Don't forget to lock up, now. And we'll open on Monday, bright and early."

"OK. G'night, Willa," Richie said fondly as she opened her umbrella and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He closed the door behind her and turned to face Angie.

"Hi," he said, and lapsed into silence. God, she looked beautiful. Winter twilight came early in Seattle, but here by the front windows there was still enough light to see the droplets of water glistening in Angie's long, wavy hair. The scent of her shampoo mingled with the aromas of sawdust and wet wool.

Richie admired the swell of Angie's breasts beneath her sweater as she pulled off her raincoat and gave it a good shake. He suddenly found himself wondering what Mac and Amanda were doing in the dark, empty dojo. A warm flush crept up his throat and rose to his face, and he was grateful that the store lights were already at their dim night-time setting.

"Hi yourself," Angie said with a warm smile. "Are you almost ready?"

"Ready?" Richie echoed.

"Aren't you coming to dinner?" She sounded disappointed.

"Oh, yeah. I just gotta check the back door." He started down the aisle.

"Get your coat, too. It's really coming down out there." Angie sat down in one of the folding chairs by the coffeepot where Willa liked to socialize with her customers.

Richie raced through a final check of the store and rejoined Angie within minutes.

"Where's your jacket?" Angie asked.

He laughed at her maternal tone. "It's upstairs in my room," he said. His voice deepened. "Come with me."

Angie stared at him a moment in the increasing darkness. The sound of the rain battering against the windows seemed unnaturally loud. Say yes, Richie willed. Please say yes.

"OK," Angie said quietly. She stood, laid her coat across the chair, and reached for his hand.

Richie led her through the overcrowded aisles, up the back stairs, and into the small room that he called home. Two steps inside the door, he pulled Angie close, lifting her up off her toes into a heartfelt kiss. She wound her arms around his neck and fervently returned the kiss. A few seconds later Richie maneuvered her onto the couch, where kisses quickly melted into caresses.

"Do you want me to turn on the light?" Richie asked when he was able to form a coherent sentence. Angie sat on his lap, minus the sweater that she had been wearing a few minutes before. The front of her bra was unclasped.

"No," Angie replied, and she kissed him softly, in a way that made his lips tingle.

"God," Richie whispered in her ear. He picked her up easily and set her feet on the floor. "Let's open up this thing," he said, referring to the sofabed. He started tossing cushions onto the floor.

"Richie," Angie said. He was searching for the release latch. "Richie!"

"Hmm?" Richie abandoned the sofa and went to her. He placed his hands on her bare shoulders, enjoying the silky warmth of her skin. "What is it?"

Angie took a deep breath. "Do you have a condom?"

"A condom?" Richie suppressed a laugh. "Angie, we don't need a condom."

"I need one," she said unsteadily.

"Angie, I can't get you pregnant. I told you that." He kissed her forehead and bent to nip at her ear.

Angie pulled away. "But you said you didn't know that from a doctor." She sighed unhappily. "And that's not the only reason to use one anyway."

Richie tensed. "Right," he said flatly. "Guy like me, who knows where I've been?"

"That's not fair! You told me yourself that you were using when you were in Portland. And even if you weren't..." Angie reached out in the dark to brush his arm. "Richie, I'm not a virgin, either. We really should both get tested."

"I never used needles, and I don't have anything," Richie insisted. "It's impossible!"

"No condom, no test, no sex!"

"Fine!" Richie started groping for the sofa cushions, throwing them forcefully back onto the couch. He found Angie's sweater in among them, and tossed it toward her. "Why did you come up here, anyway?"

Angie pulled the sweater over her head, wrestling to find the arms in the dark. She tugged it down around her waist and smoothed her hair. "Because I wanted to do it as much as you did," she said coldly. "I just didn't know you were gonna be such a jackass about it." She found her way to the door and stumbled down the stairs.

 

 

Richie sulked for several minutes before he turned on the lights and went downstairs to make sure Angie had departed safely. Her car was nowhere in sight, but her coat still rested across the chair by the front door. He picked it up and held it close for a moment before folding it carefully back over the chair.

He locked the store behind him and trudged through the rain to a nearby bar, inventing new epithets for himself the entire way. After polishing off two bottles of cheap Rainier beer, he recalled his promise to both Angie and Willa to cut back on his drinking. Sighing, he searched his pockets to see what was left of his last paycheck—enough money to buy dinner, at least. He headed back to the yellow brick building whose first floor housed both the hardware store and a family restaurant called Floyd's.

Floyd's lasagna couldn't match the authentic Italian version prepared by Angie's mother, so Richie settled for a bottomless bowl of chili and all the crackers he could eat. Usually he enjoyed the restaurant's bright lights, worn booths, and homey atmosphere, but tonight they didn't suit his mood. He could have spent the evening with Angie and her family, laughing around the table and maybe shooting some hoops with her brother after dinner. Instead he joked halfheartedly with the middle-aged waitress and ate as much chili as he could hold. Then he left a small tip and returned to his room.

The second floor was lonely and dark. Once dentists, lawyers, and accountants had filled the small offices above the store and the restaurant, but now Richie was the only occupant. As a benefit of his employment he had use of the room at the top of the stairs and a small bathroom down the hall. For all practical purposes, he could have claimed the entire floor as his own.

Richie was struck by an urge to see what was behind all the locked doors. A minute's fiddling with a plastic library card, and the office door next to his own creaked open. The light from the hallway revealed a small, grimy room. The only signs of previous occupancy were the scuff marks on the floor and the faint outlines of photos or diplomas that had once hung on the dingy walls. Disappointed, Richie leaned against the door frame and contemplated the barren room. It's just as well, he told himself. A whole building to myself. Just like Mac. Smiling briefly at that thought, he closed the office door and returned to his room.

He debated calling Angie, but she wouldn't be able to talk at home without her mom and dad listening in. And it wasn't likely they'd be thrilled by the prospect of their-daughter-the-college-graduate sleeping with Richie Ryan. Besides, he couldn't figure out any reasonable explanation to offer for his behavior. Surprisingly few of his mortal conquests had ever made a fuss about condoms. The immortal women, of course, didn't care. And the truth was...well, he'd just expected Angie to believe him when he said he didn't need one. You jerk, he thought savagely to himself. Why should she believe you? Angie isn't stupid_._

So what was left to say? he pondered despairingly. 'Trust me, baby, I'm an immortal'? Angie was angry enough already. Maybe they were through. Maybe she wouldn't ever speak to him again, even if he did call.

He flopped onto the sofa and pulled one of his textbooks off the bookshelf, determined not to think about the prospect of losing Angie. He turned pages for hours—absorbing little of what he read, but desperate for any diversion from the oppressive loneliness of his room. Around midnight he stripped off his clothes, opened the sofabed, and fell into an uneasy sleep that was troubled by disturbing dreams.

The worst of the nightmares came at about four o'clock in the morning. Richie dreamed of making love to Angie on the linoleum floor of the hardware store. The store was dark, too dark, and he wanted to see her face so badly. Only when the blue bolt of a quickening convulsed both lovers did Richie see that the woman beneath him was Katya Turgeneva. He woke in a cold sweat, feeling aroused and ashamed.

He tossed on the thin mattress for half an hour, at first reluctant and then unable to return to sleep. Finally he rose, dressed, and walked to an all-night convenience store, where he spent his last paper money on a packet of cigarettes. He walked the neighborhood streets, smoking and thinking of Angie.

Though his sword was well hidden beneath his coat, no one ventured to approach him.

***

About eight o'clock in the morning Richie called the dojo office, hoping to catch Duncan and getting Amanda instead. She invited Richie over to train with her. Curious about what might constitute "training" for Amanda, Richie agreed. He spent most of his remaining change on the bus fare.

By the time he reached the dojo, Amanda was patting delicately at her face and arms with a towel. She was clad in a navy leotard and leggings. Richie noted the setting on the weight machine and the sweat-damp seat, and concluded that she had indeed been working out. She showed no inclination to continue, however.

"Looks like someone didn't get much sleep last night," Amanda observed roguishly.

"About as much as you did," Richie replied, trying to keep his tone light and not entirely succeeding. He smiled apologetically. "Where's Mac?"

"He's on the phone with some dreadful realtor," Amanda pouted. "Some buyers are coming over. Did you know he's planning to sell this place?"

"Yeah," Richie said. "He's moving uptown."

"Mmm. A nice penthouse apartment, a servant or two, all the luxuries."

Richie snorted. "Dream on. Mac's idea of luxury is a fortress with its own running track." He paused. "So I guess there's no chance of hitting him up for breakfast, huh?"

"No, but I'm starving," Amanda said. "And there's a coffeehouse I know over on Capitol Hill that has the most divine pastries this side of Vienna."

Richie considered. He really wanted to talk to Mac about what was happening with Angie. But in the past Mac had made it pretty clear that he didn't think Richie should pull mortals so close to the dangers of the Game. And Richie was sure that Mac would _not_ want to discuss how he handled such affairs.

He sighed. "OK, but you'll have to buy." He grinned at Amanda to cover his chagrin. "I'm busted."

"Avec plaisir, mon cher," Amanda said as she traced a finger lightly down his cheek. Her touch didn't have its usual electrifying effect. "I'll just be a minute."

To Richie's surprise, it was only a few minutes before she emerged from the elevator in a skintight black cat suit and a fluffy purple jacket. The keys to the T-Bird jingled in one hand.

"What did you have to do to get Mac to give you those?" Richie inquired.

"Nothing that would be of any use to you," Amanda said smugly. "I'm driving."

"Thank God I'm immortal," Richie muttered under his breath as he followed her out to the street.

Amanda settled into the driver's seat and checked her lipstick in the mirror. She laughed delightedly as she started the car. "I've just had a brilliant idea!"

"Oh, God," Richie moaned. "All I wanted was breakfast!"

***

Two hours later Amanda and Richie emerged from the Exotic Erotic Boutique onto Broadway Avenue. The busy sidewalk was lined with a coffeehouse, leather goods store, tattoo parlor, and countless shops full of kitsch. Tourists mingled with locals of both the exotic and non-exotic variety. One of the stores piped Mantovani-style Christmas music into the street, contributing to the neighborhood's bizarre clash of cultures.

"The last time I was here," Richie remarked, "I saw two guys in handcuffs. And there was no cop in sight." He touched his sword beneath his jacket and was reassured by its solidity. Despite the tourists and the sunny morning, this place would never feel safe to him. He had hung out on this street too many nights as a teenager.

"I know," Amanda said blithely. "Isn't it wonderful? That shop carries more fishnet stockings than anyplace north of San Francisco." She patted her shopping bag. "Now, just one more thing and then we can eat. Again."

"What's next?" Richie asked.

"I've decided to have my nose pierced," Amanda announced.

"You decided..." Richie burst into laughter. "Don't you think Mac is the one who needs the nose ring? You're the one who leads him around!"

"Haven't you heard of role reversal?" Amanda asked. "Now where should we go?"

"You're not serious, are you? What if your nose heals before you get the ring in? How are you gonna explain that?"

"I'll just say it's a kind of magic." Amanda slipped one hand behind Richie's right ear and pulled a quarter out of thin air. She dropped it into his palm.

Richie laughed and tucked the quarter into his pocket. "OK, but I'm not taking you to some back-street scratcher," he said. "Let's try the tattoo parlor."

The tattoo artist was happy to oblige the lovely lady. Amanda selected a simple gold ring and tipped him generously. Richie looked on amused as she admired her visage in the mirror. He hoped he would get a chance to see Mac's reaction.

"Now let's just slip into that leather shop," Amanda wheedled.

"Lunch," Richie insisted. He steered her toward the exit. "You promised."

"Men," Amanda sighed. "They only think about their appetites."

She stopped suddenly at the threshold of the shop, and a second later Richie felt a tingling that told him the reason for her abrupt halt. Amanda pressed back against him as a strange immortal loomed over her.

Richie figured the newcomer for 6'3" at least. He looked to be in his early thirties. His shoulders were bigger than Mac's, and he had the legs to match. A thick shock of straight, black hair fell over his forehead. Oh, God, Richie thought. It's _him_. And he's definitely hunting.

"Czeslaw," Amanda greeted the man uneasily. "So nice to see you."

"Mademoiselle Darieux," he replied. "I thought I recognized you earlier."

Amanda moved toward the door, but Czeslaw blocked her way.

Richie stepped forward. "Let her pass," he said loudly, attracting the attention of the tattoo artist in the back of the shop.

Czeslaw folded his arms across his massive chest and lifted one winged eyebrow at Amanda. "This is your latest toy, I assume? Does he know what you are?"

"Hey, asshole—" Richie started in.

"Richard, don't!" Amanda stepped protectively in front of him.

"Chet, hey Chet, good to see you," the tattoo artist twittered as he hurried up the aisle. "These two were just leaving. They don't want any trouble."

"Relax, Dave, nothing's going to happen here." The big man looked sternly at the shopkeeper. "Go back to work, and I'll come talk to you later." The man nodded and retreated to the back of the store.

"Get the hell out of our way!" Richie demanded ferociously. He reached for his sword, and instantly Czeslaw grabbed his upper arm, twisting and crushing it in his powerful grip. Richie gasped in pain as the bone came close to breaking.

"Fool!" Czeslaw admonished him. "Be quiet and listen."

Czeslaw released Richie's arm and leaned closer to Amanda, his eyes only a few inches from hers. "I challenge you in front of this witness. Name the time and place, and we will fight. If you don't appear, I'll hunt you down and force you to fight."

Amanda swallowed and drew herself up to her full height. "Czeslaw," she entreated. "I'm not a fighter. I'll make it up to you. I will."

He shook his head. "That's not possible," he said darkly. "Name the time and place."

Amanda sighed and made no further attempts to dissuade him. She paused for thought. "New Year's Day," she said. "Noon. The warehouse at 2132 Holgate Street." Richie recognized the address of a building that belonged to MacLeod.

Czeslaw nodded his agreement, stepped aside, and made a slight bow. "Until we meet again."

Amanda lifted her head and swept past him grandly. As Richie pushed by, Czeslaw again gripped his aching arm. "Watch yourself," the Pole whispered fiercely. "You're in deep trouble."

Fear surged up in Richie's chest. "Fuck you!" he growled. He shook off the unwanted touch and hurried outside to join Amanda on the sidewalk.

"Richard," she said with a weak smile. "I think you'd better drive."

***

At Amanda's insistence, Richie drove them to a small French cafe in Magnolia. He was sure Mac would want to know about the encounter with Chet right away, but Amanda claimed the news could wait. More likely, Richie thought, she just didn't want Mac to see her when her composure was shaken. He could relate to that.

Amanda chatted in French with the waiter, who disappeared and then returned a few minutes later with a Caesar salad for her and a large bowl of some sort of stew for Richie.

He was abashed to realize that he was still hungry. He picked up his fork. "So tell me about this guy."

Amanda tapped her fingers against her water glass. "I knew him about two hundred years ago. He was a dashing young officer in Washington's army." She smiled at the memory.

"_He_ was in the Revolution?" Chet was not the sort of man Richie had envisaged as a Founding Father.

"Mm hmm," Amanda agreed. "An officer who got invited to all the best parties. New York was wonderful before the British took over the city."

"And?" Richie asked.

Amanda shrugged. "And nothing. I found out later that Czeslaw isn't interested in women."

Richie shuddered. "I can't believe that guy's a queer. He looks about as much like a faggot as...as Schwarzenegger."

Amanda tilted her head quizzically. "Size has nothing to do with it, Richard." She sighed. "But I made the same mistake you did." She rested her chin on her hands. "You see, he had a friend, one of his junior officers. James was a rising star. Blond, handsome, smart, funny—and you never saw anyone who looked so good in a uniform. And there was all that money, too..."

"Ah," Richie said. "So you decided to relieve him of some of that excess weight."

"No one needs that much gold."

"Of course not," he agreed. "How did he react?"

"I left for Boston rather suddenly," Amanda said. "I never found out. But I ran into Czeslaw a few years later, and he was furious. Threatened to draw and quarter me on the street. Fortunately, it wasn't really practicable. I took the first ship for the continent, and I haven't seen him since."

"Seems like he's still mad," Richie observed dryly. "He must have had a thing for this guy James."

"I never knew," Amanda replied. "If I had..."

"You would have done it anyway." Richie grinned at her. "It's OK, I'm not gonna tell Mac."

"You're a sweet boy, Richard." Amanda smiled and began to nibble at her salad. "Why don't you tell me about this new girlfriend of yours?"

"Huh?" He was surprised by the change of subject.

"The young woman who's keeping you awake at night," Amanda said lightly.

Richie had almost forgotten the night before. Gloom descended once again. "Her name's Angie, and I'm not sure she's my anything anymore."

"Lovers' quarrel?"

He scowled. "Well, you got the quarrel part right."

"Oh," she said. "I didn't realize."

"Yeah," Richie said irritably, "I'm sure Mac told you I..." He was still smarting from some of the Highlander's past jests about his love life. He flushed. "Well, Angie's not like that. She doesn't hop into bed with just anybody."

Amanda covered Richie's hand with her own. "You're not just anyone, Richard." She waited until he smiled at her. "What were you fighting about?"

He cleared his throat. "Um...safe sex, I guess you'd say."

"Oh." Amanda patted his hand. "Well, these things do have to be handled delicately where mortals are concerned. It's not an insurmountable obstacle, you know."

Richie shrugged and shook his head. "I shouldn't be with her at all," he concluded. "She...she's mortal...and she's..."

"It sounds to me like _she _was willing," Amanda said impishly.

"Amanda!"

"What's wrong with that?" she asked. "Do you think men are the only ones who like sex?"

Richie flopped against the back of his chair and stared at her. A moment later he laughed. "No, I guess I should know better than that with you around."

"I should hope so," Amanda said. "So does Angie know about immortals?"

"Of course not! I'm not gonna drag her into all that."

"Then you have to treat her like a mortal. You have to let her know that you'll protect her."

"How am I gonna do that? Make up some false papers from a doctor that certify me as genuine A-OK sterile and disease-free?" Richie's voice rose.

"Shhh!" Amanda sounded annoyed. "There is such a thing as birth control, Richard. Even an old fogy like me knows about it."

Richie sighed and slumped over the table. "I know, but Angie wants more than that. She wants some kind of proof. Now how am I gonna do that?"

"Hmm." Amanda drummed her fingers on the pale pink tablecloth. "What about Anne Lindsey?" she asked brightly. "She's a doctor and she knows about immortals. She can give you all the paperwork you want."

"I can't ask her to do that."

"Yes, you can," Amanda said. "Anne likes you. I can tell."

He shook his head.

"You just don't want to ask for help," Amanda observed.

Richie smiled faintly. "Well, yeah...but how about you? When are you gonna tell Mac about this Chet bastard?"

Amanda pursed her lips and looked at him thoughtfully. She tipped her head in a birdlike gesture. "I'll tell him tomorrow. If you promise to go see Anne tomorrow."

That was more of a commitment than Richie wanted to make—a lot more. But what if he said no, and Amanda didn't tell Mac, and it was his fault? "That's no fair," he protested.

"All's fair in love and war, Richard. At least you got the love part."

He was silent for a moment, fidgeting with his silverware as he thought about his options. "OK," he finally said with great reluctance. "I'll talk to her."

Amanda smiled, snapped her fingers, and pulled another quarter out of his ear. She pressed the coin into Richie's hand. "Now call the poor girl and apologize."

He laughed. "Hey, how do you know it was my fault?"

"Oh, Richard." Amanda shook her head. "You are so young."

***

The following afternoon Richie stood at Anne Lindsey's office door, his arms folded against his chest, and watched as she scratched some hasty notes in a file. The doctor had cut her dark hair extremely short and gained a bit of weight. She looked happier than the last time he had seen her.

Richie sighed. He wished he didn't have to do this alone. But he did.

"Hi, Anne," he said. "Love the haircut." He stroked his own closely shorn head and smiled shyly, unsure of his welcome after so many months.

"Richie!" Anne looked up, delighted. "It's so good to see you!" She hurried from behind her desk and kissed him on the cheek. "I like your hair, too."

She waved him into the office. "How are you, Richie?"

"I'm OK." He stared at the plump one-year-old who drowsed in the stroller behind her desk. "Is that Mary?" he asked incredulously.

"Mm hmm. She's grown a bit since you pulled us out of that tunnel."

"I guess so!" He crouched beside the sleeping baby and peered in wonderment at her dark curly hair, long eyelashes, and chubby arms. "Wow."

Anne smiled warmly. "So tell me what's been going on with you."

He made a face and shook his head as if to shake off the question. "I'm fine, Anne." He knew Mac had told her about their confrontation and subsequent reconciliation. His own emotions about those events were still too close to the surface to permit discussion.

He turned and walked back to close the door. Then he turned to face the doctor again. "I need to ask you a favor," he said.

"All right," Anne responded. "If I can." She tilted her head. "Is this about immortals?"

"Well, sorta." Already he felt acutely uncomfortable. "It's kinda...medical."

"OK," Anne said. "Why don't we sit down and you can tell me about it." She gave Mary an absentminded pat before settling into her chair.

Richie sighed and sat in the chair beside her desk. He examined his cuticles. "Could this be between me and you?" he asked.

"If it's medical, and it's about you, you have absolute confidentiality," Anne assured him. "Just don't tell me anything that the police would think they had a right to know, OK?"

"OK," he said with a small smile. He knew better than to talk about sword fights with Anne. "You wouldn't even tell Mac?"

"No one," Anne affirmed. "No matter what."

Richie sighed again and shifted in his chair. Best to get this over with. "I'm seeing somebody," he mumbled. "She wants to be safe and she doesn't believe me when I tell her that it is."

"Oh." Anne thought about that for a moment. "What are you asking me to do?"

He looked up from his hands. "What can you do?"

Anne bit her lip. "I can't just tell her that it is safe, because I don't have any scientific reason to know that it is."

"Couldn't you do a fertility test or something?"

"I could manage that, if you give us a sample." She paused. "But testing is expensive and...Richie, I'm not sure what we'd be testing for."

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"Well, I don't know _why _immortals are infertile. It could be one of the usual reasons, or it might be...I don't know. A chromosomal irregularity, a chemical imbalance—almost anything. Testing could get pretty complicated, and with some form of birth control you could avert the need."

Richie nodded. "Yeah, you're not the first person to tell me that." He hesitated. "But what about AIDS and stuff like that? How do I prove I'm not sick?"

"You can be tested for HIV and the other STDs. And I know just the person to send you to, he's—"

"It has to be you_,_" he interrupted. "I can't go to anyone else. Mac would kill me if he even knew I was talking to you." He laughed nervously. "He's afraid if doctors find out about us..."

"I remember," Anne said. "You can trust me, Richie."

"I know. Mac's paranoid on the subject. It's just, I have to be careful about...I just don't want anybody else to know." He fixed his big blue eyes pleadingly on her.

Anne melted. "Well, I'm a surgeon, but I can probably arrange to be your attending physician. Then if I order the tests, all the results will come back to me."

He slumped back in the chair. "So you can just take some blood?"

"No," the doctor explained, "I can test for HIV, hepatitis, herpes, and syphilis with a blood sample. But other STDs require throat, ocular, genital, and rectal swabs. And I'd have to examine you."

He stared at her in shock. "No way! I couldn't do that." He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette.

"Richie!" Anne's hand closed over the cigarette. "This is a hospital."

He stared at the cigarette for a moment, then stuffed it back in his pocket. "OK," he said, "I better go."

"No, wait." Anne put a hand on his arm to stop him. "Let's talk about this."

"I don't think so," Richie said. He pushed his chair away from the desk.

"I don't have to do the exam myself," Anne said. "I know a male resident who's very good at this sort of thing. He's fast and he's gentle. Fifteen minutes, and it's all over."

"No! Not a chance." His voice skipped into a higher register. Again he reached for a cigarette, but this time he stopped himself in mid-gesture. He patted the pocket instead, his hand shaking.

"Couldn't you just tell Angie I'm all right? You know that I am."

"I'm sorry," Anne said. "But I don't know that. I can only verify what I know as a doctor." Her voice softened. "And I'm worried about _you._"

Richie shrugged off that notion.

"I don't know how immortality works," Anne explained. "What if you were infected before you became immortal? You could still be sick, couldn't you? And what if you were to be infected now—could you carry the virus or bacterium? For how long?"

"Just call me Typhoid Richie," he said bitterly. Then he sat up straight in his chair as Anne's words sank in.

"You think I could really be sick? I could make Angie sick?" He'd never thought that testing was necessary for any purpose but allaying Angie's concerns. If he could still be infected as a result of one of his preimmortal liaisons...God, the possibilities were terrifying.

"I don't think that's likely, from what little I know about immortals," Anne reassured him. "But we need to eliminate that possibility. It's more likely that you might be able to transmit something like the HIV virus for a short time, simply by carrying it on your person. Like lipstick, from surface to surface." She paused. "Did Duncan or Joe give you any information about how immortals' bodies deal with infection?"

"I don't think they know," he said numbly.

"Well, the reason I ask is that it's possible that your body could carry antigens or antibodies to an illness that your immortal immune system has already defeated. If that's true, then some tests could come back positive, even if you're not ill."

Richie was puzzled, but Anne didn't explain further.

"Do you know where your childhood medical records are, Richie? That might give us a place to start."

He took a calming breath. "I don't know. Doesn't the hospital have them?"

"If you were a patient here. Were you?"

"Yeah." Richie looked away. "Do you really need them?" He clenched his fists, trying to remember exactly when he'd been in this hospital, and what she might find in those records.

"If you want me to be your physician."

He shrugged in defeat. Anne had said anything medical was confidential. He'd just have to trust her. He couldn't back out now without endangering Angie—or giving her up altogether.

Anne pulled a form from her desk drawer. "How about if I ask you some questions right now so that I can update your chart? Would that be OK?"

Richie nodded fractionally.

Anne started going down the list, asking increasingly personal questions. Richie responded in monosyllables. When the form was complete, Anne folded it up, and looked at him sympathetically.

"You do need to be tested, Richie. It's good that you haven't used any intravenous drugs, but any unprotected sex puts you and your partner at risk. We need to make sure that you're all right."

He looked down at his hands. "I can't. I can't let you do that."

Anne left her chair and parked one hip against the desktop. She touched his arm. "I'm concerned about you, Richie. Can you tell me why you're worried about the testing?"

He shook his head.

"I know there's been a lot of violence in your life. There still is. If you're worried about—"

"I'm not worried!" Richie cut her off. "I just don't want to do it. I don't need it. I can't be sick. I'm an immortal."

Anne squeezed his shoulder before returning to her chair. "All right. Why don't we do this? I'll take some blood today, and we can run all the blood tests. That way we can eliminate HIV, which is probably our major concern. All the results should be back in about a week, and then we can talk about what to do next. Does that sound OK?"

Richie hesitated. "What if...what if there's like, little blue sparks in my blood or something?"

Anne's laugh broke through the tension. "If that were true, I'm sure someone would have noticed by now. You've seen a doctor before. You can't be that different."

"That was before I died."

"OK," Anne said. "How about this? I'll check your blood under the microscope before I send it to the lab, and if I see anything strange, we won't do the tests. After all," she added, "the lab won't have any way of telling you're anything other than mortal. They're only looking for a positive or negative result on a particular test."

He considered the risks. "OK. As long as all the tests come back to you—nobody else."

"Agreed," Anne said. "You stay here and keep an eye on Mary for me, and I'll be right back with the equipment."

Mary stirred as soon as her mother had left the room. Richie rocked her stroller back and forth with one foot until Anne returned.

"I think she's waking up."

Anne smiled. "She'll be cranky, then. Let's get this out of the way so you won't have to listen to her scream." She swabbed Richie's arm with antiseptic.

He grinned at her fastidiousness. "I don't think you have to worry about that."

"Old habits die hard." Anne jabbed in the needle and drew blood into several vacutainers. Richie didn't even flinch; needles, he reflected, didn't seem like much after you'd taken a few sword wounds.

"All done," the doctor announced. "And the blood won't go off to the lab until I've looked it over." She set the tubes of blood on her desk. "This is a good start, and we'll talk more next week after the results come in."

"OK." Richie bit his thumb, pondering whether he dared ask Anne's advice about his other problem. "Could I ask you a personal question?"

Anne sat down. "If it's about Mary...even doctors forget about birth control sometimes. Which is not to say that I'm the least bit sorry about the results."

"God, no!" He was mortified. "That's not what I meant!"

Anne smiled. "Don't worry about it. Most days I wish everyone who wanted to know would just come right out and ask." She relaxed into her chair. "What's on your mind, then?"

"I was wondering what you thought about...about..." He rolled his eyes, chagrined at his own inability to finish the sentence. "Do you think Mac should have told you?" he blurted. "Before he slept with you?"

"Oh." Anne leaned forward and cradled her elbows on the desk. "That's a hard question to answer, Richie. Because I have thought that sometimes. Wished that he'd trusted me. But I don't know if I would have gotten involved with Duncan at all if I'd known about the sort of life he leads."

Richie frowned. How could Mac change that? How could he?

"On the other hand, you and Duncan have to be very careful about protecting yourselves. That's important, too. Even if you love someone, that doesn't mean that it will last forever, no matter how much you want it to. And I know that part of the reason Duncan didn't tell me about immortality is that he didn't want to put me at risk." She smiled. "Besides, the truth is it's not easy to keep such a big secret for the rest of my life."

"But then how do I know? How do I know when?"

"I don't know, Richie," Anne said. "It depends on how you and your friend feel about each other, and how risky it is for you, and whether you think she'd be better off knowing or not knowing. I don't think there are any easy answers."

He tried to hide the depth of his disappointment.

"I think you must care about her a lot, to come here when you didn't really have to. You're trying to make sure she's safe. That's a big step all by itself. Maybe that's enough for now."

He chuckled. "In other words, slow down. That's what Mac and Tessa always used to tell me."

"I find it's good advice in most situations," Anne acknowledged. "But you have to find your own way, Richie. I'm glad you've found someone and I'm glad you came to see me."

"Me too," Richie said. "Thanks." He rose from his chair and smiled down at Mary, who was rubbing her eyes with her fists and making unhappy noises. "Sorry if I was cranky."

"You weren't cranky at all," Anne said. "I'll start on this right away, and I'll call you as soon as I have the results. And Richie?"

He turned back from the door.

"Stop smoking. I don't care if you _are_ an immortal."

***

Richie exited from one of the hospital's side doors onto a chilly patch of lawn surrounded by seas of parked cars. He took a few lungfuls of cold air before sitting on the hospital steps to light up a cigarette.

He closed his eyes as he breathed the smoke in deeply. Talking to Anne had been even harder than he'd expected. He shuddered again at the idea of letting Anne or some stranger examine him, see the scars on his back and legs, humiliate him. It was bad enough that he'd had to admit to all the things he had done. He burned with shame imagining what Anne must think. Explaining was impossible.

He shivered despite his jacket. Something about the bleak surroundings, the cold damp, and the taste of the cigarette reminded him forcefully of the previous December. In a lifetime with more than a few down spots, that had been one of the worst. He'd been bloodied before, lived on the street before, been on the run before. But never because of someone he had loved and trusted. Someone who had kissed him mockingly just before raising a sword to enjoy his quickening.

A car door slammed nearby, and Richie jumped. He surveyed the parking lot suspiciously, scanning for a tall, dark immortal. He saw only two elderly women slowly making their way toward the entry.

He shook himself. Get over it, he thought. This is Seattle, not Portland. Mac's OK and you can protect _yourself_from Chet or anybody else. You're not some doped-up street kid any more.

He contemplated the cigarette in his hand, knowing how disgusted Mac would be if he saw it. Well, so what? He carried a sword and was willing to kill at a moment's notice. Shouldn't tobacco be pretty low on his list of vices? The stuff couldn't even hurt him. He smiled and allowed himself two more long drags on the cigarette before stubbing it out on the stairs.

After seeing Anne, he had planned to drop by the adjacent mental health clinic to talk to Angie, who hadn't returned his phone calls of the day before. Now he wasn't so sure that a visit was a good idea. If it really wasn't safe for them to be together...Shit, it had never been safe. Anne had just added some new dangers. If he cared about Angie at all, he'd stop seeing her right now. He'd call her again, he'd say 'let's just be friends,' and they would be friends—after a while. The only problem was, his feet kept walking toward her, and his heart kept beating faster every time he thought about her, and he had to see her, had to see Angie, not just talk into a telephone.

Then suddenly he was at the clinic, and through the glass doors he could see Angie sitting behind the reception desk. She was speaking into the phone while peering at a computer screen.

He pushed through the doors. Angie looked up, blushed, and immediately turned away. She answered the caller's questions at length while studiously ignoring Richie. Finally the call ended and she had no recourse but to look at him.

"I tried to call you last night," Richie said from the other side of the desk. He'd never seen Angie's face such an interesting shade of pink.

"Mom told me." Angie started shuffling through some papers on the desktop.

"Do you have time to talk?"

"I'm working, Richie," Angie replied curtly. "We have clients."

No one else was in the waiting room, and the clinic closed at five, less than a half-hour away.

"OK, I'll wait." He sat on one of the turquoise vinyl couches and considered his next move. Angie turned back to the computer and began to type, but she soon ran out of information to enter. She hurriedly pulled some files together and carried them over to a tall filing cabinet.

Richie studied her as she flipped through the files, seemingly having some difficulty with alphabetization. Angela Marie Burke wasn't the most gorgeous woman he knew, just the most fascinating. She wasn't tall and thin and blonde, like so many of his past girlfriends. No, Angie was several inches shorter than he was, with a petite, rounded figure and waist-length, dark-brown hair. She'd left behind the baggy look that had characterized her adolescent wardrobe, though she still favored short skirts and bright colors that accentuated her dark coloring. Today she wore a swingy black skirt and a striped pullover that together were doing some wonderful things to pick up his morale. Her cheeks were still pink and her eyes were bright, and Richie wondered if she was angry or if she knew his eyes were on her.

"Can I use the phone?" he asked.

"If it's local," Angie said, without turning from the cabinet.

He stepped behind the desk and dialed MacLeod's number.

"Amanda?" he said, unnecessarily loudly. "It's Richie." He listened briefly.

"Yeah, I'm just calling to let you know that I _did_ go to see Dr. Lindsey today." That precipitated a long burst of conversation on the other end, to which he responded with "uh-huhs" and "mm-hmms."

"OK, just don't forget our agreement, right?" He listened some more. "Yeah, see you later."

Just as he hung up, a group of women spilled out of a door down the hall, signaling the end of the day's last therapy session. Several of the participants greeted Angie on their way out. A few minutes later the group leader emerged with his coat over one arm and a briefcase in hand. The therapist nodded at Richie. After three months of dropping by to see Angie, his face was familiar to most of the clinic's personnel.

"Why don't you two head home now? I've got a date and I need to lock up," the psychologist said.

"Could I stay and finish the flyer, Dr. Hoft? I'm almost done." Angie pointedly ignored Richie's presence.

The psychologist repressed a smile, apparently realizing that he had walked into the middle of something. "Sorry, Angie, but I can't leave you the key. Let the pamphlet wait till tomorrow."

"I'll take it home with me." Angie reached beneath the desk for her purse, pulled on her jacket, and gathered some papers into a neat package. She stalked to the door.

Richie shrugged helplessly at the therapist, who smiled and gave him a thumbs-up sign. "Have a good evening," Dr. Hoft said cheerily, as Richie moved to follow Angie out the door.

Angie let the heavy glass door close behind her and hurried toward the small parking lot behind the clinic. Richie caught up with her in a few strides. "I'll walk you to your car," he offered.

"That's a nice change."

Richie grimaced. "C'mon, Ange, I'm really sorry. I _am_ a jackass. An idiot. A jerk. An—"

"Oh, just stop it!" Angie halted in the middle of the parking lot. "Did you really go see a doctor? About...you know?"

"Yeah." He waited for her response.

"I didn't think you would," Angie said, almost to herself. She started walking again, then turned around when Richie didn't follow. "Don't you need a ride?" she asked.

"Yeah." Richie grinned and rejoined her. He opened the driver's side door for Angie and closed it carefully behind her.

She waited for Richie to get in and close his own door before turning to him with a sheepish expression. "I guess I'd better get moving," she said. "Or you'll have your results back before I even get tested."

Richie started. Amanda was right—Angie did want him as much he wanted her! He slid across the bench seat of the ancient Oldsmobile and tugged on Angie's jacket, pulling her into a deep kiss that left them both breathless. "I don't care about that," he said thickly.

"Well, you should." Angie put a finger on his lips, forbidding another kiss. "Not now. I've got to take you home." She turned the key in the ignition and made a face. "Besides, you taste like cigarettes."

***

Amanda hung up the phone with a self-satisfied smile.

"What was that all about?" Duncan asked from behind the kitchen island. He had developed a craving for Christmas cookies, and he knew full well that Amanda wouldn't be baking any. At present he was pressing his thumb print into dozens of unbaked cookies, each of which would later be topped with a spoonful of raspberry jam.

"Just easing the path of true love." Amanda sauntered over to the kitchen area and frowned at the unfinished cookies. She dipped a finger in the waiting bowl of jam.

"Hey!" he objected. "That's not sanitary."

Amanda smiled and made an elaborate show of licking the sticky stuff off her finger.

Duncan was not diverted. "_Whose_ true love?" he asked.

"Richard's, of course."

"Amanda! You're not going to interfere between Richie and Angie, are you? Because I might have to do something about it if you do..."

Amanda reached for the jam again. "Like what?" she teased.

He grabbed the offending wrist. "Like lock you up until those two are safely out of the way!"

Amanda pouted. "I'm eleven hundred years old, and _you're_ the one who's medieval."

"1592 is not medieval!" Duncan released her hand.

"Well, neither is 1996!" Amanda shook her head. "Honestly, Duncan, haven't you ever talked to Richard about sex?"

He picked up a dishtowel, wet it, and attempted to wipe the jam off his own hands. "Richie was acquainted with the concept long before we met." Too damn well acquainted for a 17-year-old boy, in his opinion, but there was nothing to be done about that.

"He wasn't an immortal then."

Duncan was perplexed. "The mechanics are the same. And if you mean responsibility, of course I talked to him. So did Tessa. At length."

Amanda sighed. "I'm not talking about rules and responsibilities, I'm talking about feelings. Richard's _and_Angie's. Now that he's one of us, things are different."

Duncan put down the towel. "You mean he's told her about immortals?" He'd known that Richie's feelings for Angie ran deep, but he'd never expected the young man to make such a dangerous disclosure without consulting him first. He moaned. "Oh, my God."

"No, he hasn't told her!" Amanda said crossly. "Somewhere he's picked up this notion that he shouldn't be with a mortal at all."

"What? When did he tell you this?"

"Yesterday. We had a lovely lunch and a chat." Amanda waved at the phone. "And as it turns out, he's not going to give up on Angie after all."

Duncan smiled and circled around the kitchen island. He knelt beside Amanda, took her sticky hand, and kissed it. "Well done, Lady. From now on, I shall send all the lovelorn to you and you alone."

"I've always thought I could do much better than Dear Abby. If I ever felt inclined to take on a real job."

Duncan rose and took her in his arms. He rubbed his nose playfully against hers. "Did this counseling session take place before or after the nose-piercing?"

Amanda stiffened, and her expression darkened for a moment. Then she smiled. "Afterward. I tried to get Richard to at least pierce an ear, but he is such a stick-in-the-mud."

Duncan didn't miss the change of mood. He cupped Amanda's face in his hands. "What's wrong? Did something happen?"

Amanda sighed and pulled away. "We ran into Czeslaw at the tattoo parlor. He challenged me."

"What?!" he roared. He gripped Amanda by the shoulders. "When were you going to tell me about this?"

"Today," she huffed. "And you can take your hands off me!"

"Sorry," Duncan said, not at all sorrowfully. But he did let go of Amanda. "What happened?"

"It was all very civilized. We set a date and a time and went our separate ways."

"A date?" he growled.

"New Year's Day," Amanda confirmed. "Though I didn't specify a year..."

Duncan ran his hands through his hair and shook his head in disbelief. Why? Why was this happening now? He paced over to the window and stared out for a few moments before turning to face Amanda. "What are you going to do?"

"We'll have a nice Christmas, and then I'll be on my way. I haven't been to South America in ages."

"I'll talk to him," Duncan said. "There's no need for this."

"It won't work, Duncan."

"Why? Why is he after you?"

"That's not important. The important thing is that I've offered to pay him back, but he's not interested."

"I'll talk to him," Duncan repeated balefully.

Amanda stepped close and fingered his collar. "I can take care of myself, Duncan. I don't want to fight Czeslaw, but if I have to, I will. In the meantime, let's just enjoy the holiday."

"Do you really think you can take him?" Duncan asked. The prospect of such a fight gave him chills.

"Of course I can. Rebecca didn't train me just to take on weaklings, you know. I simply prefer to avoid a fight if possible. I'm a lover, not a fighter."

"We'd better start training. You're out of practice."

"_I'm_ not out of practice," Amanda said. "But if you think you need some training..." She threaded her arms around his neck.

"Amanda," he protested. "I don't want to lose you. And I _don't_ want you to leave. I want you right here."

"Seize the day, my love," Amanda whispered into his ear.

***

Angie parked beneath a streetlight a half-block away from the hardware store. A large Hispanic family mingled around the entry to Floyd's, joking in Spanish as children of various ages competed for their parents' attention. Richie and Angie sat in the car, watching the children's antics and postponing their good-byes.

"Can you come inside and talk?"

Angie smiled wistfully. "I don't think that's such a good idea. After the last time."

"OK," Richie said. "But there's some stuff I have to tell you."

Angie scooted over next to him. "Like what?"

He put an arm around her. "Like...I'm not gonna have the fertility test. Anne—Dr. Lindsey—says it's expensive, and we don't need it anyway, if we use something. But she took some blood to test for AIDS and herpes and some other things."

He sighed heavily. "She wanted to do some other tests too and...I can't do it, Ange. I can't let them." He rested his head against hers. "Is that OK?"

Angie thought for a minute or two. Then she slid her arms around Richie and tucked her head beneath his chin. "It's OK. We can be careful. I'm really only scared of AIDS, or getting pregnant."

Richie put both arms around her and held her close for several long seconds. "I really can't have kids, Ange," he said in a small voice.

She sat up and caressed his cheek before touching her forehead to his. "Richie," she said gently, "just because you were molested doesn't mean you can't have kids. There's nothing wrong with you. The doctor can tell you—"

"God!" Richie pulled away, yelping as he bruised his back against the door handle. "Is that what you think?"

"Richie..."

"You think I'd lie about something like that? To you?" Man, that hurt. He'd tried so hard not to lie about the important things.

"No! I didn't mean that," Angie whispered. "I thought...I thought maybe you were afrai...maybe you didn't want..."

"Is that what they teach you in those college psychology classes?" he asked bitterly. "People like me can't even tell what's real?

"_I really can't have kids_. I can't tell you how I know, but I know. For sure. Forever. I can never have kids."

"Oh, Richie," Angie buried her face in his shirt and hugged him. "Why? Why?"

He was silent. There was no explanation he could offer, and he was tired of trying to remember made-up stories. Better to just say nothing, or change the subject. He swallowed hard.

"Angie, Mac doesn't know about...that. I mean, he and Joe saw the scars and they know about Frank putting me in the hospital. Like I told you. But I don't think they know about the other stuff. And I don't want them to find out."

"I would never tell anybody," Angie said sorrowfully.

"I know," Richie assured her. "It's not like half the old neighborhood doesn't know. I guess it's just that there wasn't any police report—" He realized he was saying too much out loud; Angie wouldn't know or care about his Watcher file. "I mean, Mac knows too much about me already, you know? If he ever comes after me again, I sure as hell don't want him to know _that._"

"Why do you think he'll come after you?" Angie asked. "You said he was fine now!"

"He won't," Richie backtracked. "I know he won't. It's just better if he doesn't know."

"Richie, why do you care? I mean, why do you spend all that time at the dojo? I know you're friends, but...the swords and stuff...Wouldn't it be better to stay away from that?"

He sighed. "Mac's just trying to teach me how to look out for myself. Toughen me up, you know."

"I like you the way you are."

"It's just Mac wouldn't understand. Being weak, I mean. And I don't want to explain it to him."

"It seems like he might understand," Angie ventured.

Richie shook his head. "He might say so, but he wouldn't. He never could."

Angie didn't argue the point. "Do you think it's stupid that I want to be a psychologist?" she asked.

"Oh, Ange, that's not what I meant. You'll be great." He kissed her lightly. "I'm sorry I said that."

"It's OK." Angie hesitated. "Richie..."

"Yeah?"

"Have you ever thought about signing up for one of the groups at the clinic? You're there half the time anyway."

He smiled. "What did you have in mind?"

Angie foraged beneath her feet for the pamphlet that she had been working on at the clinic. Together they squinted at the page in the faint illumination of the streetlight. Angie pointed to a long list of services, including discussion groups, counseling sessions, and activities for teenage runaways, the homeless, the illiterate, the long-term unemployed, substance abusers, alcoholics, dysfunctional families, rape victims, abused wives and children, juvenile offenders, and people with HIV.

"Don't you have a combination plate?" he joked. "I mean, how am I supposed to choose?"

"Dr. Hoft's group is supposed to be good," Angie said, indicating a group therapy session for survivors of childhood abuse. "He's a really neat guy."

Richie froze. "I did a year of that already. No thanks."

"This wouldn't be like the Children's Center. They're all adults. And you can leave any time you want."

He shook his head.

"It might feel good to talk about it," she wheedled.

"Forget it, Ange. I'd rather mop floors." He shoved the paper aside. "Sign me up for the Saturday night support group for alcoholic juvenile delinquents or the Fourth of July picnic for illiterate runaway dysfunctional drug addicts, but don't make me go through that again!"

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "It was a dumb idea."

Richie's anger dissipated immediately. He reached for her hand. "No, _I'm_ sorry," he said. "Maybe I should sign up for anger control for short-tempered redheads."

She squeezed his hand. "Can't they let brunettes in, too? Italians can be pretty passionate, you know."

"I know," Richie said. "But think what could happen." He kissed her soundly. "We'd both get thrown out."

"Mmm," she murmured. "Might be worth it."

He bent to kiss her again, but Angie bolted upright with a squeak.

He jerked away, his right hand reaching immediately for the hilt of his sword. "What?!"

Angie laughed and pointed outside. Two small children clung to the lamppost, watching them with fascination. "I think that's your cue."

"Damn kids," Richie muttered. He kissed her anyway, just to give them a show. Then he pulled away from Angie and opened the car door.

"I'll call you tomorrow."

***

When Richie called late on Saturday morning, Angie reported that she had already been to the local clinic for an AIDS test. She wanted quick results, she explained, and she didn't want to face the family doctor. Besides, her brother Alan was singing in a Christmas chorale in Tacoma that evening, and she had to spend the rest of the day with her family. She begged off any activities on Sunday, too.

Richie suspected he wouldn't be seeing much of Angie until they both had their test results back and could spend some time alone. A week seemed like an awfully long time to wait. Worth it, though—assuming Anne's fears were off-base. They were off-base, Richie decided. Mac would have warned him if he had anything to worry about.

That afternoon Richie painted the back wall of the store. The job wasn't really essential before the store opened on Monday, but painting had more appeal than studying. And it kept his mind off his stomach, which was protesting against a lunch of stale pretzels and an apple.

Willa dropped by unexpectedly around four thirty in the afternoon. Richie had the radio cranked up so high that he didn't even realize Willa was there until she was waving her arms in front of his face.

"Now what are you up to? I thought we were going to paint later."

He grinned. "I'd rather do this than write an essay on a great American."

"I'm sure of that," Willa chided. She pulled an envelope from her purse. "I forgot to give you your paycheck," she explained.

"Huh? But we haven't even been open for business!"

"Well, I've been working you, haven't I?"

"Like a slavemaster."

"That's why they're called slave wages." Willa smiled. "I wish it was more, Richie."

He pushed the envelope into the back pocket of his jeans. "As long as it buys something better than chili, that's all I care about."

"Is that what you're living on? That stuff will eat you from the inside out." Willa squinted at him over her glasses. "I think you'd better come to the church supper tonight. We'll fatten you up on casseroles and dessert. No charge but good behavior."

He shook his head. "No, thanks. Mac and Amanda already asked me over for dinner." He didn't add that he wouldn't be caught dead at a church supper. He looked at his watch. "Uh-oh. I better start cleaning up."

"You tell that Mr. MacLeod to come by for the opening on Monday. I notice he's had his eyes on those Bronson chisels, and they'll be on sale."

"I'll tell him," Richie promised. "But don't put them on sale. Mac can afford full price."

***

"Where's Amanda?" Richie asked, as he threw his jacket over a chair. He hadn't been surprised when Mac arrived alone to pick him up, but he had expected to find Amanda back in the loft getting an early start on the hors d'oeuvres.

"We had a difference of opinion," Duncan said stiffly.

Richie smothered a laugh. Judging from his tone, Mac wasn't taking the disagreement lightly. "You wanna wait till she gets back?" he asked.

"I don't know when that will be." Duncan pulled his favorite cutting board from its storage place beside the range and pawed through a drawer for his chef's knife.

"I could cut the vegetables for you."

"No, I'll do it. Why don't you put on some music?"

"OK, something just for you." Richie fiddled with the stereo until he found an FM station playing an elevator-music version of "Proud Mary."

An apple struck him in the back with a surprisingly loud _thwack._ "Ow! Not what you had in mind, huh?"

"No," Duncan said decidedly.

"OK, OK." Richie twirled the dial again and settled on a station that seemed suitably stodgy. At least Mac didn't object.

"I could set the table," Richie offered.

"Just sit down and relax," Duncan instructed as he rooted in the bottom of the refrigerator for onions, garlic, and peppers. "I can do this."

Richie sighed. When Mac didn't want help, he didn't want help. Period. Richie flopped onto the sofa and tried to listen to the music. A minute later he was up again, surveying the contents of the bookshelves, pacing from window to door and back again. "Hey, Mac, did I tell you that Willa's opening the store on Monday?"

"Hmm?" Duncan grunted without looking up from the garlic cloves he was mincing.

"Yeah, you should come by. We have to make up for all the business we lost. You can buy all your Christmas presents..."

The lack of response told him that Mac wasn't listening, but Richie plunged on, elaborating on all the reasons why the grand opening was a "don't miss" event.

"Besides," he concluded several minutes later, "you could finally break down and buy those chisels you like. So are you coming, Mac? Mac?"

Duncan nodded. "Sure, Rich, I'll be there."

Encouraged, Richie edged the one-way conversation a little closer to the subject that was on his mind. "Angie went to Tacoma to hear her little brother..."

Duncan continued to chop and saute vegetables as Richie talked on.

"Anyway..." Richie took a breath. "I guess I don't know what to tell her. It's just weird, you know, 'cause when we were kids...and now everything's so different..."

"Uh-huh," Duncan said absently, as he added more ingredients to his saucepan.

"I guess it seems kinda stupid to someone like you."

Duncan closed his eyes and took a deep whiff of the simmering sauce before adding a lid to the pan.

Annoyed, Richie collapsed dramatically onto the floor beside him. "Help!" he clutched at his chest. "I'm talking and I can't shut up!"

Duncan looked down at him and laughed. "I'm sorry, Rich. My mind's somewhere else." He pulled a couple plates off the shelf. "What were you saying?"

Richie sat up. Duncan was already at work setting the table. He watched for a minute. "I said, what is this music?"

Duncan identified the melody with no apparent effort. "Bach. Third Orchestral Suite. One of the most beautiful pieces ever written."

"If you say so." Richie cocked his head and listened to the violin play the second movement. "It's sad."

Duncan shook his head. "Take a music appreciation course, would you? And get up off the floor. I need you to open the wine."

 

 

The salad course, pasta, and dessert passed with no sign of Amanda. After four glasses of wine, Duncan was morose. Richie realized how upset the Highlander truly was when he dumped the dinner dishes in the sink without bothering to wash up.

"Mac, she'll be back. She's just pulling your chain."

Duncan smiled slightly. "But she's so good at it." He sank into the leather sofa. "You were with her, weren't you? When Czeslaw challenged her?"

"Yeah." Richie sat in a chair facing his host. "So she told you."

"She told me." Duncan eyed him accusingly.

He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, I'm the one who convinced her to confess!" He paused. "So I guess I know what you two were fighting about, huh?"

"How serious is it?"

"Serious?" Richie asked. "He wants to kill her!"

Duncan gazed desolately into his wineglass. "I haven't seen Chet in years," he confided. "What did you think of him? Do you think there's any chance he could be talked out of it?"

Richie rubbed at his arm, remembering the anguishing twist of the bones in the other man's grip. "The guy's a pervert, Mac. A mean, ugly, six-foot-three-inch pervert! He's not letting anybody off the hook."

"Pervert?" Duncan asked worriedly. "What happened, Rich? Amanda didn't say anything like that."

Richie snorted in disgust. "He's a faggot, Mac! He threatened me, too."

Duncan's eyes narrowed. "What did he say? _Exactly?"_

Stung by Duncan's obvious disbelief, Richie retreated into silence.

"You can't expect him to be anything but hostile if you use language like that, can you?" Duncan scolded. "You never insult your opponents, Rich. Not unless you want to make them angry. And that's not a strategy I recommend with someone like Chet."

Richie rolled his eyes.

"I thought I told you to stay out of his way!"

Richie's temper flared in response. "He's the one who grabbed me! You weren't even there. What do you know about it?"

Duncan took a deep breath and lowered his voice. "I _don't_ know about it. That's why I'm asking you. What happened?"

"Forget it," Richie said, as sullenly as any teenager.

Duncan sighed. He stood and walked to the sink to empty his glass. "I checked with Joe, Rich. From everything we know about Chet, he's an honorable man. If you treat him like one, he'll likely leave you alone."

"Oh, yeah, I'm sure that's likely."

"What is the matter with you?" Duncan asked. "Chet is gay. It's not a crime. You think you're in any position to despise someone else for being different? Every immortal is an outsider."

"Right," he said acidly. "Can't forget that. We're all the same."

"For God's sake, Richie, what happened? Did he hurt you?"

Richie stood and reached for his jacket, making it clear that he was ready to leave. "No, Mac. It was just a little chat between us perverts. Nothing for you to worry about."

"I'm just trying to find out how I can protect—"

"You can't protect me or Amanda! She's on her own, just like everybody else! You think you can—" Richie stopped, feeling another immortal was near.

Duncan glared at him for a second longer; then he turned on his heel and strode to the door that led to the exterior stairs. He checked the peephole and yanked the door open, allowing Amanda inside.

"What in the world is going on in here?" she inquired.

"Amanda." Duncan greeted her with relief. "I'm glad you're back." Then he dug in his pocket for his keys. "Would you mind driving Richie home? I've had too much...too much to drink."

***

That's better." Angie twisted and retaped the red crepe paper that edged the table near the store entrance. "You're almost out of coffee, though. Do you want me to do it?"

"I've got it." Willa whisked away an empty tray and placed a huge platter of multicolored Christmas cookies on the tabletop before unplugging and removing the large coffee urn. The morning had brought a flood of customers, and lunchtime was proving to be both hectic and profitable.

Angie joined Richie at the cash register. Few of Willa's non-contractor customers were big spenders, but almost everyone who ventured in to see the refurbished store ended up buying something—batteries, light switches, Christmas decorations. Angie bagged while Richie rang up purchases and joked with everyone who walked into the store.

When the line temporarily dissipated, Angie slipped her arms around Richie's waist from behind. "The lights look beautiful," she said. He had opened two dozen packages of white Christmas lights and strung them across the ceiling in elegant swags.

"You should see it at night," he said, waggling his eyebrows.

She laughed. "It won't be long. Maybe even this weekend?"

"Anne said a week. That's Friday."

"It might take longer, though. We shouldn't get our hopes up."

He groaned. "I wish you wouldn't put it that way!"

Angie giggled. "You won't forget, will you? I mean, we still need to..."

"'Be Prepared.'" Richie finished. "If I'd been a Boy Scout, I would have known that in the first place."

"Who wants a Boy Scout?" Angie asked. "I'm a biker chick, myself."

Richie was trying to think of a suitable reply when Willa returned, lugging the coffeepot. He extracted himself from Angie's arms and vaulted nimbly over the counter. "Here, you should have let me do that."

"I can still carry water," Willa said, but she released the urn gratefully. A thin young woman hovered nearby, anxious to ask a question. "Richie," Willa said over one shoulder as she strode briskly down the aisle, "bring in more of those boxes of ornaments when you get a chance."

Three more people surged through the front door and stopped briefly for cookies before seeking directions to the hardware and housewares of their choice. Richie sent them all off, and then turned back to Angie.

"My lunch break is over," she said regretfully. "I've got to get back to work."

"OK. You'll call me as soon as you hear?"

Angie nodded.

Richie spun around to face the entry as he felt the approach of another immortal. The door swung open, and Duncan MacLeod and Joe Dawson entered. They greeted the young couple cordially.

Angie tugged at Richie's arm, reclaiming his attention. "I'll call," she promised. Then she flustered him by kissing him good-bye and whispering "You call me!" into his ear.

Richie turned to find Joe and Duncan observing him with undisguised interest. "Cutlery's on aisle 2," he said. "I've got to get some stuff in the back."

"Uh-huh," he heard Joe say. "I think I'll just sit and have a cup of coffee."

Richie headed for the "Employees Only" sign that hung over the rear door. He stepped into the back corridor and pushed open the door to the small storeroom that was hidden behind the store's public space. Mac was following him, he knew, but he chose to ignore that fact. He was still miffed about Duncan's attitude the night before.

He rummaged diligently through the boxes stacked on overflowing metal shelves. "Damn," he cursed under his breath. The single bulb that dangled from the ceiling was inadequate to illuminate the space.

"Can I help?" Duncan asked.

"No," Richie said emphatically.

Duncan leaned against the door jamb. "Rich, I'm sorry about last night. I was worried about Amanda."

"What's the big deal?" he asked. "She told me last night she's leaving town before the fight ever happens." He placed several boxes on the floor and reached toward the back of the deep shelves, trying to unearth more ornaments.

"The big deal," Duncan said slowly, "is that I don't want her to leave. I'm in love with her."

Richie turned to face him. "You are?" he asked with open astonishment. "How do you know?"

"How do I know?" Duncan echoed with a bemused expression.

Richie blushed. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he thought. "I just mean...I thought you guys were...uh...off and on."

Duncan laughed. "You're right. It has been off and on, for a long time." He snagged a package of fragile green orbs that was teetering on the edge of a nearby shelf and added it to Richie's growing stack. "But I'm different now. I want more."

Richie was confused. "Is that what she wants?"

"I'm still trying to figure that out," Duncan said ruefully. "But, Rich, you know—we've talked about this—no one can replace Tessa. Loving someone else doesn't diminish anything Tessa and I had together."

"Sheesh, Mac," Richie mumbled, embarrassed that Duncan would even mention the topic. He began to sort through the ornament boxes. "So what are you going to do, then?"

"I don't know. Find Czeslaw first. Talk to him, or fight him—whatever I have to do. Leave town with Amanda, if that's what it comes to."

Richie stared at him. Mac was going to leave? He should have seen that one coming, but he hadn't.

"Oh," he said. He didn't want to think too hard about how that possibility made him feel. Then he shook his head and smiled. "Oh. No wonder Amanda's mad at you."

Duncan sighed. "I need your help, Rich. Do you have any idea where Chet might be?"

"How would I know?" he asked. "You think I hang around with creeps like that?"

Duncan gritted his teeth. "No," he said, "I got the message about how you feel about gay men. But you said he threatened you, too. And you know this city even better than I do. I thought you might be keeping track of him."

"I don't hang out on Broadway Avenue anymore, Mac. And I take care of myself. Leave me out of this." Richie picked up as many boxes as he could carry and edged out the doorway. Again, Duncan followed after him.

At the front of the store Joe and Willa relaxed in a pair of folding chairs, discussing the best lighting for the tables at Joe's bar. Richie focused his attention on arranging a display of ornaments near the cookie table while Duncan hovered nearby, obviously unhappy with the outcome of their conversation.

"So," Duncan said finally, as he pulled out his wallet. "What does everyone want for Christmas? Because I believe in one-stop shopping."

***

Having established that Czeslaw was not an inveterate headhunter, Joe proved as unwilling as Richie to help Duncan track down the older immortal's location. As a result, Duncan spent the next four days cruising the Capitol Hill neighborhood, staking out by turns Amanda's hole-in-the-wall "bank," Draco's Bar, and the tattoo parlor where Czeslaw had challenged Amanda.

He found the tattoo parlor in question only after canvassing most of Broadway Avenue, which seemed to have dozens of such emporiums. At each shop, he introduced himself to the proprietor, described Czeslaw, and left a message that he wished to speak with the man. Duncan didn't care if he found Czeslaw or Czeslaw found him, as long as their meeting took place before Amanda was hurt or decided to make a getaway.

And Amanda's departure threatened to come sooner rather than later. Duncan didn't know how, but she had figured out what he was up to by the end of his third day of surveillance. With not an inkling as to Czeslaw's whereabouts, he had lied to Amanda and risked another day's search. If he was successful, he could handle an angry Amanda. He couldn't handle her loss.

Yet by late Friday afternoon Duncan was no further ahead. He sat in the Thunderbird about a block from Draco's, longing to venture inside the warm, dark bar for a whiskey. But, even with the convertible's top raised against the December chill, he had received a number of admiring glances from passersby. Tolerance was all very well; he still wouldn't be comfortable at the brass rail of an openly gay bar.

He sighed and decided to allow himself one more hour before heading back to the dojo for dinner and a full confession. Once the sun had set, he'd have little hope of spotting Czeslaw on the street anyway.

He settled back into the driver's seat to watch twilight descend. The days are so short now, he mused. Odd that I could have lived this long, and still feel so desperate to make up for lost time. If I were aging, he wondered, if my brain and body were shutting down with each passing year, would I be ready for death?

No, he decided. If he were alone—as he'd tried to be so often since Tessa's death—if he were alone, dying wouldn't matter nearly so much. But there were still so many things he wanted to do with, and for, Amanda and Richie. This must be how mortals feel, he realized. No matter how old and decrepit you might become, there was always someone you wanted to see grow up, some crisis to help your family overcome, someone's wedding to attend. Someone who loved you and needed you around.

Duncan hadn't been raised in an era that segregated love and need. He fully expected that the twentieth-century mania for individualism would be the target of mockery in the next century. If not, he didn't see how mankind could survive. One would think that everyone, mortal or immortal, was involved in a crazed winner-takes-all game.

Four years before, when Connor had confirmed that the Gathering had begun, Duncan had known that the final stages of the Game would inevitably separate him from the people he loved. But that was the very time when Richie had come into Duncan and Tessa's lives, creating the sort of cozy family that Duncan had not enjoyed since his own childhood. Somewhere in his heart Duncan had always known that the life of that family would be brief. Still, he hadn't expected to lose Tessa first. The pain of that loss had shocked him into an uncharacteristic abandonment of long-term relationships. He had rebuffed Connor and all his friends, moved into the dojo alone, and altered his relationship with Richie from father figure to stern teacher and trainer.

Unable to live the sort of monkish life that Darius had adopted, Duncan had eventually turned to Anne Lindsey for the human contact he required. He had succeeded in keeping Anne at an emotional distance until her pregnancy—which was when, of course, she had decided to keep her distance from him.

Afterward Amanda had drifted into his life again, and he had clung to her like a life raft. Though they had never spoken of it, Duncan knew that Amanda was as conscious of the impending Gathering as he. Once he had gone years without challenging another immortal; now a month rarely passed without a killing. The death of Darius, the death of Rebecca—these were not coincidences. The approaching millennium brought with it all kinds of fantastical elements that had previously played no role in the Game. Murderous Hunters. Luther and his dream of acquiring invincibility through the Methuselah stone. The reappearance of Methos. Kalas and his bizarre threat to reveal the presence of immortals to the world. The dark quickening.

Fear of Kalas had first forced Duncan and Amanda into declaring their feelings for each other. Though they had parted and reunited several times since, the nature of their centuries-old affair had changed. For the first time in his long life, Duncan had fallen in love with another immortal. He smiled wryly to himself. Naturally, he would have evaded love for an immortal until now! Now, when it was too late to build a life together. Now, with Amanda, who had never equated even "true" love with settling down.

Similarly, his attempt to maintain a safe emotional distance from Richie had failed spectacularly. Richie—who was doomed to a short, brutish life by the timing of his birth—Richie was closer to him than any student, any child had ever been. Between Duncan and mortal children there had always been a wall. He had loved and cherished them, but he had known always that they were not his own, that they were not like him. Richie was like him and, as horrifying as the implications of that were, Richie's immortality did break down the barriers.

The deadly competition between immortals should have made it impossible for Duncan to love either Amanda or Richie, but it hadn't. Oh, no. He might be bad at loving, as Amanda had suggested and the past week had probably confirmed, but, by God, he certainly _felt_ love. He had a family again—a lover and a son he needed as much as they needed him. He would use whatever time he had left to protect them and to ensure their happiness. There was so much to do before—

An electric jolt pumped adrenaline into Duncan's system. Another immortal was approaching.

"Duncan MacLeod?"

Duncan climbed out of the car, leaving his katana untouched inside his coat. He looked up nearly three inches at the man he most wanted to see. "Yes," he confirmed. "Czeslaw. I'm sorry, I've forgotten your last name."

The other immortal shrugged incrementally. "It doesn't matter. It wasn't my own."

"And 'Czeslaw' is?" Like most older immortals, Duncan had an abiding interest in the genealogy—such as there was—of his kind.

"The closest equivalent," the other man agreed. He cocked his head. "What are you doing here?"

Duncan smiled, letting his relief at finding Czeslaw break through the tension that always accompanied a meeting of strange immortals. "You're a hard man to find."

Czeslaw's eyes narrowed, and he quickly scanned the dusky street, where shoppers and tourists were already giving way to streetwalkers, runaways, and drug dealers. He looked as out of place as Duncan did. "Why did you expect to find me here?" he asked.

"My mistake," Duncan apologized. "I didn't know where else to look. I only knew you'd been seen here."

"What do you want?"

Duncan got straight to the point. "You issued a challenge. I want to stop it. My guess is that Amanda stole something from you, something valuable. I'm willing to pay you back, with interest, any sum you care to name."

Czeslaw grimaced. "Yes. She stole something valuable from me."

"Name your price."

Czeslaw surveyed him silently. Duncan stared back, taking in the other man's easy stance, his weathered black-leather jacket, dark jeans, and soft cotton shirt. He didn't have the look of a killer.

"When we last met, I didn't take you for a fool," Czeslaw observed. "Nor the sort of man to waste his time on a thief and a whore."

Duncan stifled his retort. The negotiation was what mattered now.

"No need to defend Mademoiselle Darieux. I doubt she would dispute either charge." Czeslaw's voice dropped to a soft growl. "She's proud of what she is."

"I love her," Duncan said flatly. A strange declaration to make to a stranger, but it felt right. "Name your price."

"You love her? A woman who isn't capable of love herself?"

"You can't know that. Amanda is...a blithe spirit. A sprite."

"My people believed that sprites lured men into deep water and drowned them."

Duncan scowled. How had the conversation veered so quickly off track?

Czeslaw shook his head. "Have you learned nothing about our kind in four hundred years? We're born killers, all of us. Orphans. Bastards. The Other. Few ever overcome those childhood lessons. If your Amanda learned nothing of love from Rebecca, has given nothing of herself in a _thousand_ years, she will never give herself to you—or anyone else."

Duncan lunged at Czeslaw, grasping at his leather jacket. "Name your price!" he shouted. A man and woman passing down the sidewalk swerved away from the T-Bird.

Czeslaw brushed him aside. "You can't pay it, Highlander. My price is one life. And your life won't do, not even if you're willing to offer it."

"A life? For a theft? There's no reason in that!"

"A life for a life," Czeslaw said. "She hasn't told you, then?"

"Told me what?" Even as Duncan said the words, he regretted them.

Czeslaw folded his arms across his chest. "About 220 years ago, Mademoiselle Darieux danced and drank away one pleasant New York evening with a Lieutenant James Ogilvie. She then robbed the lieutenant of the small fortune in gold that he was carrying and left the city under cover of darkness. The theft was discovered at daybreak and immediately ascribed to the French whore."

Czeslaw went on, his tone deceptively casual. "The lieutenant was ruined, of course. The gold was his family fortune, pledged to the support of Washington's army. His entire family was destroyed—brought low by the very sacrifice they had offered to their nation." He tilted his head. "And men starved, or died in battle, for the want of a crust of bread or a horn of powder. All so that Mademoiselle Darieux could dress herself in silks and dine at the finest tables.

"You knew those times, MacLeod. You were a warrior once."

Duncan was stunned. A theft he had expected; he simply hadn't thought about the possible repercussions. "She didn't know, Czeslaw. I'm sure she didn't know!"

"Is that what you prefer to believe, MacLeod? It makes no difference to me either way. James hanged himself from a tree not fifty yards from my quarters. A good man, a fine officer, a poet, and the truest friend I ever knew. I loved him.

"There was no price _I_ could pay to save _him._"

"No," Duncan protested softly.

"You see, I'd never been interested in acquiring money—until then, when a stockpile might have saved a family. I couldn't even spare James the prurient gossip." Czeslaw's mouth twisted into a bitter imitation of a smile. "What could I have said? That he spent the night with me?"

Duncan closed his eyes briefly. "I'm sorry," he said. "I know that Amanda would be sorry, too."

"I don't require her sorrow. Only the fulfillment of a promise I made to James's memory. She will die, or I will. Either outcome is acceptable to me."

"No!" he said. "It's been two hundred years. Let it pass. Why issue a challenge now?"

"Amanda, too, is difficult to find. And like you, MacLeod, I have had commitments in my life. They are fulfilled now. The Gathering is approaching, and I will do what I promised before I die."

"You're not a man who kills unnecessarily!" Duncan knew he was grasping at straws.

"No. Few men choose to challenge me." Czeslaw indicated his own height and breadth with a sweep of one hand. "And rarely have I challenged them without cause. I have cause."

"The murder of a woman for a 200-year-old grudge? Where is the honor in that?"

Czeslaw raised an eyebrow. "I doubt that Rebecca left the lady defenseless. In any case, a challenge is not murder, MacLeod. If you believed it to be so, you would never have left Darius's tutelage."

Perhaps there was still hope. "You knew Darius?"

"I fought with him."

"You _fought_ with him?" That simple statement revealed a great deal. If Czeslaw had known Darius in his warrior days, he was very old indeed. Over 1500 years. "Would he find honor in this?"

"Darius was not my teacher."

No hope, then. Duncan lifted his head high. "I won't let you kill her. You'll have to fight me first."

Czeslaw nodded, as if expecting this ploy. "She has acquired another plaything, you know. A young immortal, barely weaned." He smiled ironically. "In fact, he looks remarkably like James."

"Richie?" Duncan asked with sudden dread, remembering what the young man had told him about Czeslaw. He understood now why Richie had been frightened. He was beginning to feel rather frightened of this calm avenger himself. "Richie is Amanda's friend. And my student."

"You should teach him better manners, then."

"Richie's not a part of this," he growled. "If you try to make him part of it—"

Czeslaw waved a hand in protest. "No, no, you misunderstand me. The children of this age are sufficiently cursed. They have nothing to fear from me."

Duncan nodded, accepting this as a promise. "Shall we fight now?" he asked.

***

Richie hung up the phone, disappointed beyond words. "She's gone for the day. She probably tried to call when I was in class."

Angie was perched on the back counter where Richie usually worked on financial records and special orders while Willa handled the cash register at the front of the store. "Well, I'm sure she'll call on Monday," she soothed. She slid off the counter and gave him a hug. Her own test results crackled in one pocket of her skirt.

"Damn," Richie grumbled into her luxuriant hair. He could tell from Angie's perfume and her fancy dress that she too had been hoping that tonight was the night. He could have been unbuttoning that soft black blouse, kissing her neck, sliding his hands under that silky skirt...Uh oh. He pulled away. "Damn!" he said again.

Angie smiled.

"Richie," Willa called. "There's someone here to see you."

"Figures," Richie muttered. He started up the aisle. Willa was holding a dark-haired baby girl on her hip—Mary Lindsey. He stopped in his tracks. Willa and Anne Lindsey were in the front, chatting together like old friends. His throat constricted. Oh, God, he thought. Why would Anne come _here?_

"Richie?" Angie came up behind him. "Who is it?"

He struggled for calm. "It's Anne. Dr. Lindsey."

Angie seemed to recognize his dismay. She took his arm. "It's OK," she reassured him. "She just couldn't reach you by phone."

He looked into her eyes and let out the breath that he had been holding. "Yeah," he said tentatively. Either that, or he was infected with something hideous.

Angie slipped her hand inside the crook of his arm, and Richie let it rest there as they walked to the front counter.

"Hi, Anne," he said. "I guess you've met Willa. This is Angie Burke. Angie, this is Dr. Anne Lindsey—and Mary."

"Hi." Angie stuck out her hand, and Anne shook it.

"It's just Anne," the doctor said. "I'm pleased to meet you."

Richie tried, and failed, to think of something further to say.

"Richie, do you think we could talk for a minute?" Anne asked.

No! he thought. No, no, no. "Sure," he said aloud.

"Angie and I can keep an eye on this little bug," Willa offered. Mary's fingers were firmly wrapped around the beads of her necklace.

"OK," Anne said, "but don't let her break those. She's got quite a grip." She turned to Richie expectantly.

He froze. Where were they supposed to go? He couldn't take Anne up to his room. He looked to Angie. What should I do? he asked silently.

Angie blinked. "You could get coffee next door," she suggested.

He smiled his gratitude. "OK?" he asked Anne.

"That sounds fine."

Richie held the door for Anne, but she didn't move to follow him. When he glanced back at her, the doctor looked puzzled. "What is that?" she asked.

He listened. The glass and metal objects that crowded the store shelves were jingling softly. "Truck," he guessed. "Must be a big one."

At that moment the tinkling noises were underscored by a deep rumbling bass line. The floor jolted.

"Earthquake!" Willa exclaimed. "Richie, get away from that glass!" She handed the baby to Angie, and unceremoniously shoved them both beneath the front counter. "You!" Willa shouted to the customers who stood motionless in the aisles. "Get away from those shelves!"

As if on cue, the shelves began to pitch back and forth, back and forth in a regular rhythm. The lights strung overhead joined the dance.

Momentarily stunned, Richie didn't move until Anne began to pull him toward the counter. Then he shook her hand off his arm. "No, you go," he said, and they exchanged a grim look that acknowledged her mortality. He pushed Anne toward the counter.

The rocking motion increased in intensity, and items began to crash and fall. "Willa, take cover!" Richie ordered. "I'll take care of them." He leaped over some fallen boxes and began herding the shocked customers toward the doorway at the back of the store. Once in motion, they began to run. The noise was deafening now. "No, stay here!" Richie yelled, remembering the earthquake drills that had been common at the Children's Center. "Don't go outside!" Three men ignored him and ran down the back corridor, past the storeroom, the stairs, and out into the street. A woman and a young teenage boy followed his instructions, bracing themselves in the pitiful shelter of the interior doorway.

A loud crack punctuated the bedlam, and first one and then the other front window fractured. Events seemed to be happening in slow motion. Richie watched as the glass shattered into tiny pieces and dissolved onto the floor. He could see the joints straining on the freestanding display shelves as they whipped to and fro. On the small, high windows along the side wall, the venetian blinds slapped in and out, in and out.

The power failed, and the woman beside Richie moaned. He sympathized. This was bad enough with the lights on.

Then the first of the shelves collapsed, and ceiling tiles began to fall. "Cover your heads," he instructed the woman and boy beside him. They crouched on the floor against the door frame with their arms over their heads. Richie stood, trying to see what was happening in the front. He couldn't see Angie, Willa, Anne, or Mary. "I'm going to check on the others," he yelled over the din.

He stumbled and swayed across the heaving floor like a seasick drunk, his arms over his head to fend off flying debris. A sheet of pegboard bowed and dumped a load of hammers and screwdrivers onto the floor. Richie cursed and jumped aside, only to be whacked in the shoulder by the lurch of a metal shelving unit. He cursed again. Dodging obstacles and struggling for balance in a world where nothing was fixed, he finally reached the women gathered beneath the front counter. Mary clung to Anne's breast, screaming at the top of her lungs. The sound was hardly noticeable. Angie and Willa huddled next to the mother and child. When Angie reached out for him, Richie put one arm around her and the other around Anne, trying to block all of the women from any harm. Still the quake continued.

The counter itself warped and twisted, sagging dangerously in one corner. Richie stood and tried to wrest the heavy cash register off the surface, wishing hopelessly for a crowbar. He abandoned the attempt and returned to his protective position. The small group listened as more and more of the ceiling fell around them. Once the whole building moaned and a thundering crash reverberated somewhere outside.

Shortly thereafter, the motion began to subside. The rumbling noise ceased, replaced by the cries of the baby and the soft slap of the blinds against the remaining windows. After a few seconds without a tremor, Richie pulled Angie into his arms, where she buried her face in his shirt. "Everybody OK?" he managed to choke out.

Willa closed her eyes and offered a quiet prayer of thanks. Anne smiled tremulously, still clutching Mary.

"C'mon, Ange," Richie said, as he half-pulled and half-lifted her out from beneath the counter. "It's OK now." He gave his hand to Willa and then to Anne, and they stood to survey the damage.

"Everybody OK back there?" he yelled to the customers in the back.

"We're fine," the woman shouted. "I've got to get home _right now!_" She and the boy headed for the back door.

"Willa?" Richie touched her arm.

The older woman looked as if she might cry. "That poor insurance man," she said. "He is _not_ gonna be happy with me."

Richie laughed, and Willa and Angie joined in, their shock giving way to giddy relief. Even Mary began to quiet in response to Anne's words of comfort.

The world outside was quiet except for the tinkle of falling glass somewhere down the street. "Can we get out of here?" Angie asked.

"Sure," Richie said, but opening the door was no easy matter. It, too, needed a crowbar. Now that the quake was over, he might actually have a chance of finding one. But first he knocked the remaining glass out of one window frame and helped the women crawl over the sill.

The damage outside was less severe than Richie had expected. Some, but not all, of the nearby buildings had lost windows. Two of the block's power poles tilted at odd angles, their intact telephone and electrical wires still swinging back and forth in response to the earth's recent motion. Parked cars bounced up and down on their shock absorbers. Across the street and a few doors down, he spotted the source of the loud crash heard near the end of the quake. One side of a building had collapsed into a heap of bricks that blocked most of the road. A large cloud of dust drifted upward from the pile and dissipated ominously across the neighborhood.

Richie turned to look back at his own building. Only a few bricks had toppled from the front facade, but broken mortar gaped open in an ugly, stair-step pattern. The restaurant on the other side of the building now appeared to be at least a foot closer to the sidewalk than the hardware store was. He couldn't tell if the building had warped, or the sidewalk.

People emerged from nearby buildings and gathered in the middle of the street, speaking in hushed tones. Some simply sat on the pavement and stared into space.

"Oh, Lord Jesus," Willa said. "We've got a lot of work to do."

Anne seemed to shake herself, pulling her attention away from Mary for the first time since the quake had begun. She turned to Willa. "People are going to need first aid," she said crisply. "Where can we set up?"

"The church hall," Willa responded. "Right across the street. I'll take you over there. Angie, honey, you go around and tell people that the doctor is in the church."

Angie nodded.

"What do you need, Anne?" Richie asked.

"Water, blankets, medical supplies. And light." The late afternoon sun was already near the horizon.

"We've got those car first aid kits," he said. "And batteries and flashlights. Is that OK, Willa?"

"Take whatever people need. And you be careful, too." Willa pointed Anne to the church, and they picked their way through the rubble, recruiting both patients and helping hands as they went.

Angie shivered. "I'll help you," she said to Richie.

"Nuh-uh." He shook his head. "You're not going back in there, not with those shoes." Angie's low black pumps wouldn't have been impractical in most circumstances, but they weren't fit for climbing through rubble. Besides, he didn't want her in any more danger than she had to be. "You stay out here and help Willa. I'll be right back."

He stepped over the windowsill and back into the store. After some consideration, he grabbed an empty box and filled it with as many flashlights as he could find. Then he carried the box back to the window. The adolescent boy who had been in the store earlier took the box from Angie and volunteered to run it over to the church. Richie made several more trips, returning with an armload of heavy-duty batteries, a half-dozen first aid kits, and a box of lamp oil. "I'm gonna go in the back and see if I can find some lanterns that aren't broken," he told Angie. "Stay away from any windows." She nodded and moved a few feet back to wait for him.

Richie pushed through all the rubbish to blaze a path to the back stairs. He couldn't leave the building without his sword. The plaster wall beside the stairs had crumbled, creating a slippery mess and a choking dust cloud. He held his breath and dashed upstairs to his room. He fumbled about in the near darkness, finding his jacket and sword, pulling the blanket off the sofabed, and grabbing his good coat for Angie. Then he felt his way back down the stairs and rooted around in the back aisle until he unearthed a few intact oil lamps and some camping lanterns. He hauled this load to the front window and turned it over to the volunteers who stood waiting for him. He gave Angie the coat and blanket and shrugged into his own jacket.

"We need shovels, man!" The teenager had returned. "There's somebody buried down the street!" The boy crawled over the windowsill to help.

"Over there," Richie pointed. While the boy handed out shovels, Richie found the crowbars.

"We need wrenches! Gas leaks!"

"Gloves and dust masks!"

"Sledgehammer? You got a sledgehammer?"

"Fire extinguishers! Get that first!"

Richie didn't recognize the voices, but he hastened to get the required equipment, making trip after trip until it seemed he had emptied the store of whatever part of its inventory was still in working order. At one point, he thought he felt the presence of another immortal, but the sensation passed. By the time the orders had all been fulfilled, night had fallen.

He climbed out of the store. "Angie?"

She appeared out of the darkness. "I'm right here."

"Did they get those people out?"

Angie pointed to a small cluster of lights near the pile of bricks that Richie had seen earlier. "No, somebody's still trapped in that building. Mr. MacLeod is there helping."

"Mac's here? Great!" Richie trotted toward the site. "I'll meet you in the church later," he called over one shoulder.

"No way!" Angie said, following him. "I can help, too."

A dozen or so people labored at the brickpile that blocked all entry to the badly damaged residence. Richie plunged into the group of workers to replace an exhausted middle-aged man. He found himself excavating in the dark next to Duncan.

"Hey, Mac, you're in the neighborhood and you can't even say hello?"

"I looked in on you," Duncan explained, "but you were busy."

"Yeah."

A woman's moans emanated faintly from the building, and the men at the front of the pile resumed digging at an accelerated pace. They handed bricks and plaster over to a line of people, including Angie, who passed the debris along like water buckets on a fire line. Twenty minutes later, they uncovered the door of the building. Richie and Duncan took turns applying a sledgehammer and a crowbar until the door finally gave way. A small cheer went up from the crowd.

"Hello in there!" Duncan stuck his head into the opening. "Do you need help?" A woman coughed, and a hand reached out for his.

"Thank God you're here," she sobbed. One of the diggers handed Richie a flashlight. The light revealed an elderly woman, drenched in blood from a jagged head wound. She held one arm against her chest.

"Looks like you've got a fractured wrist," Duncan diagnosed. "Hold still and we'll lift you out of there." He put his hands beneath her arms and pulled her out with Richie's help.

"Is there anyone else inside?" Duncan asked.

The woman coughed again. "There was a little boy on a bike outside my window. He must be underneath all those bricks."

Richie shot an incredulous glance at Duncan. They'd been digging for her while a kid was beneath all this?

"We'll find him," Duncan promised the woman. Two of the diggers left to help her to the church.

The others returned to their work. Another half-hour later, Richie discovered the body. "Mac," he said quietly but urgently.

Angie left the line to see what was wrong. The light of her lantern reflected off a crushed bicycle wheel. Richie pulled her away, but not before she saw a young boy's head and shoulders, grievously wounded. "Oh, no!" she whispered.

Duncan took Richie's flashlight and illuminated the boy's face. "Do you know who it is?" he asked.

Richie shook his head. The boy seemed to be about eight or nine, with black hair. It was hard to tell anything else, given the darkness and all the blood. The other helpers looked on the body one by one, but none was able to identify the boy. Several people, men and women, broke into sobs.

"Angie," Duncan said, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder, "please go find Willa and ask her to come here."

Angie looked at Richie, who took her hand and squeezed it. "It's OK. Tell Anne not to come."

Angie nodded her understanding of the instructions and left.

Richie and Duncan stared down at the broken body of the child. "Are you all right, Rich?" Duncan asked.

Richie ignored the query. He knelt down to remove more of the bricks from the body. Exhausted now, he and the other diggers pulled away the remaining debris slowly and quietly, almost reverently.

When Angie returned with Willa, Duncan explained the situation in a few words and helped Willa climb over the rubble to get to the body. She stooped beside Richie, who trained the flashlight on the child's face.

"Yes, I know him," Willa said. "That's Mrs. Sharma's little boy. Rajiv, I think." She closed her eyes briefly, then stood and took charge. "We'll take the body to one of the rooms above the store. Angie, will you please go back to the church hall and ask everybody if they know where Mrs. Sharma is? And ask one or two of the church ladies to come help me at the store."

Angie left, and Richie looked at Duncan, who nodded his agreement to Willa's plan. Richie handed Duncan the flashlight and picked up the boy's body. He followed Willa, who used her lantern to light their path across the street, through the store, and up the stairs. Duncan accompanied them. He took the body while Richie picked the lock of the room next to his own.

Aside from some fallen plaster and the corresponding dust, the room was undamaged. Richie pried open a window while Duncan settled the child's body on the floor. Two black women, one in her thirties and one in her sixties, entered the room with an oil lamp and a bucket of water.

"Richie," Willa asked, "will you bring us the sheets from your bed? And a washcloth and towels."

He went next door with the flashlight and found the required items.

"Do you need anything else?" Duncan asked.

"Just the boy's mama."

Duncan nodded and turned to leave.

"Do you want me to stay?" Richie asked Willa.

Willa patted his shoulder. "No, you go back to the church and clean up. There's somebody there needs to see you."

Richie and Duncan plodded down the stairs, crunched through the store, and made their way across the street.

"Man, it's _dark._" With no streetlights and no ambient light at all, the neighborhood took on a different character. Richie gazed up to see what the stars were like in this blackness, but clouds of dust and smoke obscured the sky.

"Just like the good old days," Duncan remarked.

Richie stopped. "Why's it so quiet?" he asked, realizing what else was different about the night. "I mean, where's the cops and the ambulances and the fire engines?"

Duncan wiped at the grime on his face. "I heard some snatches from the radio earlier. It sounded like other parts of the city were harder hit. We may be on our own for a while."

Richie sighed. "I'm glad you're here," he said frankly. He didn't relish the idea of being responsible for all these people on his own.

Duncan looked surprised by his admission. "It was scary, wasn't it? I've never been in a big quake before."

"I didn't know what to do. It never even occurred to me there could be somebody under those bricks."

"That boy died instantly, Rich. You did exactly the right thing. Without the equipment you distributed, we might never have gotten that woman out in time."

"Yeah, I know." He shrugged. "Anyway, between you and Willa and Anne, we've got plenty of chiefs now. I'm glad I get to be an Indian."

Duncan laughed. "So you're saying you're going to follow orders?"

"You got it, Chief!" Richie managed a tired grin. "So, Mac, don't take this wrong, but how'd you get here? How come you're not at the dojo?"

"Can we sit down?" Duncan took Richie's arm and propelled him to a seat on the church steps. "I was over on Broadway Avenue looking for Czeslaw," he explained. "We were talking when the quake hit."

Richie coughed and shifted nervously on the step. "Talking?"

"Yes," Duncan said. He passed a hand through his dirty hair, which was springing free from the clasp that should have kept it out of his face. "You were right, Rich, Chet is a dangerous man. He's determined to kill Amanda. We were about to go off and fight when everyone started running into the street."

"Why?" Richie demanded. "Why do you have to fight him?"

"I couldn't talk him out of his plan. And I'm afraid Amanda can't handle an immortal of his size and skill."

"But you can." Richie was worried about Duncan's chances. And, he realized to his own horror, he was also immensely relieved. If Mac took out Chet, he wouldn't have to face the bastard.

"I thought you were going to let me handle things."

Richie sighed. "OK, Mac," he agreed. He knew he couldn't stop the Highlander if he was determined to fight. "But why'd you come here?"

"The dojo was five times farther away, and Amanda probably wouldn't have been there anyway. Besides, I know that Amanda knows how to look after herself in natural catastrophes. I was afraid you might do something silly, like get yourself hurt or killed in public."

Richie snorted, amused at this idea.

Duncan focused the flashlight on Richie's unblemished hands. "Or do something stupid, like not putting on gloves, when you need them more than anyone."

He pulled his hands away. "I thought you'd probably have to look out for Joe."

Duncan shook his head. "He wasn't around. I searched for him."

"What about your cell phone? Doesn't that work?"

"No, either there are too many people trying, or the transmission tower is down." Duncan pulled the phone out of his coat pocket to demonstrate.

"Bummer," Richie said wearily. "Those things never work when you need them."

"Not tonight, anyway. What say we go inside? I smell food."

"OK." He couldn't rustle up his normal enthusiasm for dinner.

"And Richie?" Duncan blocked his path. "I think it would be a good idea for you to lay low if Chet comes looking for me or Amanda. He told me he's not interested in you, but he's carrying a grudge."

Richie flinched at the suggestion that Chet might be "interested" in him. He swallowed hard. "Gotcha," he said, and he brushed past Duncan and into the church.

The building was empty except for a few people who were praying in a front pew. Candles cast feeble circles of light into the space. A woman made her way back to them, stepping carefully over shards of colored glass, and directed them to the social hall next door.

Richie and Duncan walked into the hall and immediately relaxed in its homey atmosphere. Lanterns, flashlights, candles, and oil lamps provided soft lighting. Groups of people were scattered across the space, using their own blankets and small tents or simply sitting in the folding chairs that lined the sides of the room. There was a small kitchen near the entry, where some women had taken advantage of the counter space and available utensils to create a buffet of foods donated by church members and neighbors.

The space was remarkably quiet considering the number of people it housed. Some groups huddled around portable radios, listening to the half-formed local reports and then spinning the dial to hear the wild speculations on the national news. Other groups simply sat, speaking in low tones and trying to calm, feed, and entertain children. Chairs draped with handmade liturgical banners marked off the far end of the room as Anne's clinic.

"What time is it?" Richie asked.

Duncan shone the flashlight on the watch that never left Richie's wrist. "About seven-thirty."

"That can't be right! God, it feels like midnight!"

Angie approached them from one of the dark corners of the room. "I can't find Mrs. Sharma anywhere," she said in a distressed voice. "I've asked everybody."

"It's all right, Angie," Duncan said. "You've done everything you could. Now why don't you go get Richie a plate of dinner?"

"Oh, OK."

"Mac—" Richie began to protest this unwarranted sexism.

"She needs someone else to worry about, Rich. Like you." Duncan gave him a little shove toward the kitchen. "I'm going to check on Anne."

 

 

Duncan could see that Anne's major effort was over. He watched while she checked and rechecked her three serious patients—a fry cook who had burned one arm in a small fire at Floyd's Restaurant, the woman with the broken wrist and head wound, and a man who had suffered a mild heart attack. All three were local residents, with family and friends to sit beside their makeshift beds. After reassuring the family members one more time, Anne directed her attention to a line of people nursing minor sprains, cuts, and bruises.

Finally the doctor dismissed her last patient, a young girl who now sported a large gauze bandage on one arm. Duncan swooped Mary from the arms of a babysitter and carried the child behind the wall of chairs.

"Oh, sweetie!" Anne reached out to take her child. She smiled at Duncan. "I heard you were here."

"Come out and sit down, and I'll get you something to eat."

"Deal," Anne said gratefully.

Someone whisked open a folding chair for Anne as soon as she left her little clinic, but she refused it. Instead she sat on the floor and let Mary crawl around beside her. Duncan made a quick trip to the buffet and returned with a heavy-laden plate. He sat on the floor beside Anne, who leaned against him.

"I should try to get to the hospital," she said.

"Not until morning. Nothing's moving through the streets tonight unless it's an emergency vehicle. And probably not even then."

Anne nodded, and let her head drop back against Duncan's chest. "If it weren't for Mary, I'd walk."

He looked across the room at Richie and Angie, who were sitting together talking and sharing a plate of food by the light of single candle. "I know," he said.

Anne followed his gaze. "They're sweet together, aren't they? Like babes in the woods."

He laughed and bent his head close to Anne's. "You'd better not let Richie hear you say that."

"Oh!" Anne sat up abruptly. "I forgot!" She stood. "Keep an eye on Mary?" she asked.

Duncan nodded, wondering what was afoot, and watched as Anne wove her way through the crowd toward Richie and Angie.

 

 

When Richie spotted Anne's approach, he reached over and took Angie's hand. "She's coming," he said.

A few seconds later the flickering candlelight made the doctor's slight figure seem to tower over them. "It's OK, Anne," he said quietly. "You can talk with Angie here."

Anne sat down beside the couple, and rested a hand on one of Richie's crossed legs. "Sure?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Everything came back negative, including the HIV test."

Angie sighed happily and gave Richie a quick hug—which was fortunate, because "negative" certainly didn't sound like good news to him.

Anne let them enjoy the moment before speaking again. "I strongly recommend that you use protection until you've both been fully tested for all the STDs."

"We will," Richie promised.

"Good," Anne said in a parental tone. "I wanted to talk to you about some other issues that came up in your medical history, Richie, but we can do that later."

"OK," he said, ducking his head. "Thanks, Anne."

The floor quaked with a small aftershock, and several people cried out in fear. Anne jumped to her feet, but the tiny tremor passed even before she could run to Mary. Still, the shock left everyone in the room edgy and alert. Formerly drowsy children wailed and people turned up their radios, listening for news about the latest event.

"Come sit with us?" Anne asked. Richie and Angie willingly followed her back toward the medical area, where Duncan was attempting to calm a frightened Mary.

"Mama!" Mary reached out her arms for her mother.

Duncan handed the child over to Anne, who soon quieted her. "She's talking!" he said. "You didn't say she was talking!"

Anne settled back on the floor with the baby. "She just started a couple weeks ago. She's taking a few steps, too."

"Ah!" Duncan tickled Mary, who chortled delightedly. "Aren't you a big girl?" he said in his best baby voice.

Richie smirked at Angie.

"I think it's cute," she said, snuggling into his arms.

"Yeah, cute," he said.

Duncan cuffed him alongside the head. "Why don't you go see if you can find something to use for bedding, big boy?"

"OK, Chief!" Richie grabbed the flashlight, and Angie followed after him by holding onto his sleeve. They walked outside, past clusters of people who were sitting on the curb—talking, smoking, or simply too afraid to enter a closed space.

"What happened to that blanket I gave you?" he asked.

"I gave it to Anne."

The couple paused to kiss in the middle of the dark street. "See, I told you, we're both fine," Angie whispered. Richie wrapped his arms around her and held her until he felt her shiver beneath her coat. The night was getting noticeably colder.

"Maybe I could find some packing blankets in the storeroom," he said. "I don't know where else we're going to find anything tonight."

"I want to come with you."

"No."

"Yes. Willa's there, isn't she? So I can go too. Stop treating me like I'm helpless."

There was no arguing with Angie when she got that tone in her voice. "OK." Richie helped Angie over the window sill and they made their way gingerly to the back stairs. Someone had swept the worst of the plaster dust from the steps. They climbed up silently, both conscious of the dead child who awaited them on the second floor.

The door of the empty office was open, and soft, golden light from the oil lamp fell into the hallway. Willa sat in a folding chair next to the child's body, which was neatly wrapped in the sheets from Richie's bed. Her two helpers had departed. She was crooning something—a song or a prayer, Richie wasn't sure which. "He stays in my room," she sang in a low voice. "He stays...in my-uh roo-om."

"Willa," Angie said softly.

She opened her eyes. "Oh, children, what are you doing here?"

"We were looking for blankets, and we wanted to see if you were OK," Richie said. "How come you're still here?"

"Can't leave this child alone," Willa explained. "Every mother's son deserves that much."

Richie crouched beside the body and laid his hand on one of the small arms beneath the sheets. He had buried men, but had never given a thought to tending to their bodies. "How did you know what to do?" he asked.

"We just did what they did in Bible times, washed him and wrapped him up. Maybe tomorrow we'll find his family. Or someone who can take him to a proper place. If not, we may have to ask the minister if we can dig a grave in the churchyard."

"I can do that," Richie said solemnly.

Willa reached out and stroked his hair. "You don't have to do every dirty job around here, you know. There's lots of strong backs besides yours."

Richie smiled and let his head rest briefly against Willa's knee. "I can do it, though."

"We could stay with him," Angie offered. "You should take a break. Get something to eat."

"No, I've got my heart set on singing. You two run along now." Willa's voice was firm.

Richie rose. "She knows what she's doing," he said, and he took Angie's hand and led her downstairs. They searched through debris for nearly half an hour, finally emerging from the store with three large packing quilts of dubious cleanliness. They took the quilts back to the church hall and draped one over Anne and Mary, who were already sleeping next to Duncan, who was still alert. Richie and Angie left one quilt for him and carried the other next to the back wall, where they curled up together and soon fell asleep.

***

By eleven o'clock snores and the snuffles of small children filled the hall. One oil lamp shone from the kitchen and another from the clinic, providing illumination for those who had to tiptoe outside to relieve themselves. Men and women who couldn't sleep—and weren't tied to children—bundled themselves in coats and blankets and moved outside to hear the radio reports. Many listened anxiously for news that might tell them the whereabouts of friends and relatives who hadn't yet returned home.

Duncan remained in the hall, seated comfortably on the floor next to Anne and Mary. With the community at rest and danger temporarily at bay, he planned the next day's activities. Clean water and medical facilities were the top priorities, he decided, followed closely by food and sanitation. Much unrefrigerated food would have to be thrown out, but people's pantries and freezers could supply shared meals for a few days, until official help arrived. Duncan smiled to himself. Da always said the Clan must look after itself...If nothing else, this clan would live on Christmas cookies.

He gave thanks that it wasn't raining—the norm for Seattle in December. So far people hadn't complained much about the cold, but that would change if they were wet and lacking both dry clothes and heated rooms. He worried about shelter. Without a qualified inspector, no one could say which homes were safe to inhabit. In the daylight, Duncan knew, communal living without electricity, telephones, or running water would be difficult. People who had spent the night in the area would head off looking for family members; nonresidents might come in, looking for shelter—or loot.

They would need to take protective measures for the children. The kids would want to be out climbing in the rubble at first light, while their elders were still in shock at the damage. Perhaps the church women could be called upon to watch the children while the men cleared the street for emergency vehicles. Others could start removing debris from those homes that seemed salvageable.

Distant sirens and the faint smell of smoke reminded Duncan that other, larger problems loomed. He knew from his frequent visits to San Francisco that fire was the great danger now—fire and aftershocks. He couldn't do much about the latter, except try to persuade people to stay out of obviously unstable buildings. He couldn't do much about fire either, but a lecture was probably in order. Late-twentieth-century Americans didn't understand the dangers posed by a simple candle or oil lamp.

Finished with his list-making, Duncan finally permitted himself to focus on the thought that had been at the back of his mind all evening. Where was Amanda? Had she been at the dojo during the quake? Despite his optimistic words to Richie, Duncan knew that immortals were as easily killed by collapsing buildings as anyone else. All Amanda's charm couldn't save her from a fate like that. After the 1906 quake, San Franciscans had simply dumped the city's rubble into the bay. If an immortal were dead somewhere in there, she might be dead a very long time—and impossible to find.

Where was Amanda right now? He tried to imagine her in a shelter somewhere, but he couldn't picture that. Where would she go? She hadn't known he was still prowling Capitol Hill, so she wouldn't have any idea where to look for him. Did she know that he would try to find Richie? Or would she go to Joe's, looking for him there? Or the hospital? Or Anne's house?

She could always take this opportunity to leave town, he thought bleakly. In the past, Amanda had often disappeared from his life without notice. And the two of them had been arguing a lot lately. With Czeslaw on her heels, leaving made good sense. She'd never have a better chance.

Richie tossed fretfully in his sleep, and Angie mumbled something that Duncan didn't catch. Richie's still a restless sleeper, he thought. I didn't know that.

Should I have told Richie the whole truth about James? he worried. It seemed disloyal to Amanda, who in all likelihood didn't know the truth herself...or did she? Why didn't she know what happened to James and the army? Didn't she ever think about what might happen to the people she stole from?

He rubbed at his temples. No, of course Amanda didn't think about the consequences. It wasn't in her nature—her light-hearted, light-fingered nature. Yes, she was a schemer, a thief, and a rogue, but she was also tender-hearted and loving.

Loving? Duncan wondered, feeling traitorous for his doubts. Could Czeslaw be right—that love wasn't something most immortals ever learned? That their lives began and ended so dismally, so alone, that they never learned to truly care for the people around them?

A helicopter passed low overhead, awakening many of the sleepers. Anne woke, immediately alert, and entrusted Mary to Duncan while she checked on her patients.

As the room settled gradually back into sleep, Duncan heard the small cry of distress that had once marked Richie's adolescent nightmares. It's no wonder, he thought, remembering Richie's face in the light of the flashlight as he crouched over the body of Rajiv Sharma. He lifted Mary to his shoulder and went to wake Richie.

"Rich?" At Duncan's touch Richie bolted awake, kicking the quilt aside with a horrified gasp.

Angie sat up. "Richie?" she asked muzzily.

Duncan stooped beside them, unable to make out Richie's features in the dim light. "It's OK, Rich," he said. "You were just having a nightmare."

Richie let out his breath, but didn't say anything for several seconds. Then he reached for his jacket. "I'm going outside," he said, and he scrambled to his feet and left.

"Richie?" Angie called. She started to button her own coat. Duncan folded the quilt around her shoulders and pressed a flashlight into her hands as she departed, too. Mary whimpered, and Anne reappeared to lift her from Duncan's arms.

"Has Richie always had nightmares?" Anne asked as she patted Mary's back.

Duncan gazed at her thoughtfully. "Yes," he said. "I think he probably has."

***

"Ow!"

Richie heard Angie stumble over the curb. He dropped his cigarette and went to help her up off the pavement.

"Hey, Ange. You OK?"

"Yeah," she said with a shaky laugh, "but I think this skirt is ruined."

"Too bad," he said. "You looked great."

Angie offered him part of the quilt, and they crossed the street to join a group of people who were gathered around a small bonfire. They nodded at the other men and women and sat down to listen to the radio. The frenetic tone of the earlier broadcasts had been displaced by voices that ached with exhaustion. One report declared that city residents should expect to take care of themselves for the next 72 hours. The announcer then read aloud tips from a survival manual. "Ick," Angie said at the recommendation to utilize water from toilet tanks.

Someone turned the dial, and everyone listened carefully as a reporter described the latest news about each of the city's neighborhoods: bridges down, major roads closed, known casualties, estimated casualties. A fire was raging at Harbor Island, where firemen were pumping ocean water to douse the blaze. Richie put his arm around Angie and they wrapped the quilt tight against the night air as they listened to a stranger describe the destruction of their home town.

"News now of another major fire in West Seattle," the voice said. "The area is being evacuated, and emergency response teams from Fairchild Air Force Base are in the area to fight the flames."

"Oh!" Angie leaned closer to the radio. "Richie, that's where Mom and Dad are! And Alan!"

He squeezed her shoulder. "No, they got evacuated. They're all right."

They listened for another half-hour, but there simply was no further information. Angie held her hands up for Richie's inspection and laughed. "I haven't chewed my fingernails in ages," she said.

Richie took her hands and kissed them. "Let's go back," he urged. He pulled Angie to her feet.

As they approached the hall, she stopped short. "No," she said. "I want to go into the church." She swerved up the steps to the double doors of the New Home AME Church.

"C'mon, Ange, you—we—need to get some sleep," Richie protested. But she had already pushed open the heavy doors and vanished inside.

"Angie?" Richie called as he stepped inside. The space was dark and empty.

"I want to light some candles," Angie said. "I need to light some candles for them, Richie!"

"Hey, shhh, it's OK," he said. "There's glass in here—be careful."

"They have to have some candles!"

Richie knew enough about this church to know its members didn't light votive candles, but he wasn't going to worry about that now. If Angie wanted candles, she could have them. "OK, I saw some in here earlier." He let the flashlight pick out the corners of the room. "Over there."

A wrought-iron candelabra stood near the sanctuary. Richie felt his pockets until he found a packet of matches. He struck one for Angie, who used it to light three of the candles.

"Let's sit down." He directed Angie to the front pew. "We better not leave with those candles burning."

Angie pulled her feet up and wrapped her arms around her legs, staring at the flames. Richie sat silently beside her, wondering what it was like to have a family, and not know if they were alive or dead.

"Is this what you felt like?" she asked. "When we were little?"

"Huh?" Richie asked. Angie knew he didn't have any family. "What do you mean?"

"All alone," she said. "Oh, Richie, what if they're all dead? What will I do? Without them, I'll be all alone in the world."

He shifted her legs across his and pulled her into his lap. Angie buried her head against his neck. "They're not dead, Ange," he said with the most confidence he could muster. "They're sitting in some Red Cross tent right now, worrying about you."

Angie drew a deep breath, but she didn't cry. She wrapped her arms around Richie and let him hold her. He found the edge of the old quilt and drew it around her, feeling an urge to sing, or hum, or do something to comfort her—but he didn't know what. She seemed content to just sit and watch the candles flicker.

An hour passed. Richie hoped that Angie was asleep until she sighed and shifted her weight off of him. "You want to go back?" he asked.

Angie shook her head.

"Do you have your wallet with you?" she asked timidly.

"Yeah," he said, reaching for his back pocket without thinking.

She touched his arm. "I want to make love with you," she whispered.

"What?" Richie was taken aback. "Oh, Ange, I don't think...I'm not sure that's a good idea right now." He felt sure he would be taking advantage of her, even if it was her idea.

Angie slipped off her coat, and then stood and stepped out of her shoes.

"You'll cut your feet!" he warned.

She smiled and shimmied out of her panties. She held out her arms to him. "Then pick me up," she suggested.

Instantly he forgot his reservations. He whisked Angie off her feet, twirled her once, and then deposited her safely on the faux-marble step that marked off the sanctuary. She didn't have to tiptoe to kiss him then.

Richie pulled back. "Willa would kill me," he protested feebly.

She touched his cheek. "Sex is a sacrament."

"Not to Methodists."

Angie chuckled—a deep, happy, tearful sound. Richie rested one hand lightly on her throat, feeling the vibrato of that wonderful laugh, and Angie's fingers reached out to touch the line of his mouth, slide along his jaw, and stroke the back of his neck. Only then did he kiss her, softly and briefly.

"I love you," Angie whispered. Richie shook his head, but she cupped his face between her hands. "I need you," she said simply.

"Oh, Ange," Richie choked on the words, "you have me." They kissed again—no dry, delicate brush of lips this time. Richie clenched Angie's hair, desperate to bring her closer, closer, closer. Her arms went around his waist and she pressed her whole body against his.

He broke away with a gasp. "Stay here," he ordered, and he left her to go find the quilt. He wrapped it around her and then picked her up in his arms again and carried her to a small carpeted area between the choir loft and the organ.

He meant to place her gently on the carpet, but Angie would have none of that and pulled him over on top of her, so that they ended up rolling on the floor in a tangle. Richie bumped his head against a wooden panel and sat up with an "Oof!" He could just make out Angie lying on the floor and laughing at him. He grinned, dropped his jacket on the floor, and pulled his shirt off over his head before leaning over to unbutton her blouse.

She lay quietly as he undressed her, and then patted his back pocket wordlessly when he lay down beside her, still in his jeans. He kissed her tenderly. "I didn't forget," he said, his voice hoarse. He pulled out the wallet and fumbled with the condom, not allowing Angie to help. He was grateful for the dimness of the candles, only slightly augmented by a pale streak of moonlight through the broken windows.

They sat facing each other—two silent, silvery figures. The night air was cold on their skin; the quiet all around was deep and mysterious. Richie listened for Angie's breathing. He touched her cheek, and she closed her eyes as his fingers stroked lightly down her body in one uninterrupted caress from neck to hip. She shivered, and Richie pulled her to him as they half-fell back onto the blanket. Angie's hand joined his atop her thigh as she wrapped her leg around him. She released a shuddering breath that was nearly a sob.

"Shhh." Richie calmed her like a child. "Easy." He stroked her hair and rubbed small comforting circles across her back, murmuring to her until she rested her head against his chest and began to cry. "It's going to be all right," he said over and over. "They're OK. It's going to be all right, Ange. You're not alone. It's all right. I'm here. Everything's OK."

She cried miserably for several minutes. Then she sniffled and hiccupped and laughed quietly to herself.

"Hey, what's so funny?"

Angie kissed the center of his chest, and he felt her smile against his skin. "We didn't need protection to do this," she said.

"Well, don't speak too soon," he said gruffly. He lifted himself up on one elbow, trying to see her features more clearly. "OK?" he asked.

"Yes," Angie said. "Yes!"

Richie pushed her gently onto her back and kissed her once on each breast before meeting her lips with his. Any sexual technique he had ever learned vanished from his head, or perhaps the knowledge merely faded away before the pure delight of finally holding, caressing, and loving this woman who knew him, had always known him, and loved him anyway.

Angie was silent as he talked to her, with words and hands. She let her fingers echo his movements, tracing the line of his jaw, his back, his hips, his legs. She spoke only once, when he entered her, a deep moaning of his name that frightened Richie at the same time that it thrilled him as no touch ever had. He feared he was hurting her then, but he didn't, he couldn't, withdraw, and when Angie locked her legs around him and undulated her hips in a shockingly sexual way that he would never have expected from her, he too lost the capacity for speech.

He gripped Angie's left buttock and crushed her to him, so that they were breast to breast, hip to hip, her right hand clenched in his left, both entangled in the dark waves of her hair. Angie stroked his back with her free hand, and he moaned in her ear, aroused beyond words just by the thought that this was Angie whose body was merging with his, Angie who loved him, Angie who was his at last after all these years.

She moved her hips again, demanding and directing even as his much stronger body pressed full against her. He responded in the only way he could, matching her rhythm with pounding force. Impatient now with kisses and caresses, he wouldn't allow her to extricate her right hand, which he held pinned beside her head. He made no effort to restrain his climax—he simply couldn't—but afterward he ignored her whispered protests, his fingers exploring her body as he had always wanted to do, giving her the same pleasure she had given him.

Long after both were satisfied, they lay skin to skin, holding each other, unwilling to part or to let the experience end. They kissed and touched and talked for what seemed like hours, oblivious to the dangers that had brought them together. The moon had set by the time they slipped into a deep sleep, Angie's head on Richie's shoulder, one leg still wrapped around him, claiming him as her own.

***

  


  
  
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	2. Chapter 2

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

The packing blanket chafed against Richie's cheek, interrupting the first pleasant dream he had enjoyed in weeks. "Errr," he growled sleepily, batting at the stiff silver fabric. He adjusted the quilt and nuzzled Angie's neck before returning to the dream.

His peace was disturbed a second time by the sound of a pen scratching across paper. He rolled over. Joe Dawson hunched in the front pew, entering his observations of the night's lovemaking in a large notebook.

Richie closed his eyes and thumped his head against the carpet. God, I am such an asshole, he thought. What the hell am I doing? Doing to Angie? He opened his eyes and noted the broken windows and cracked ceiling that marked the destructive results of a quickening. "Oh, no," he moaned. Joe saw it. Joe saw it all, and he's writing it in his book.

The Watcher looked up at the sound of Richie's voice. "She's not even an immortal," he accused. "She doesn't even know what you are. She doesn't know what's coming to you, does she?"

Richie sat up. "She's safe," he protested. "This is holy ground."

Joe shook his head and pointed to the twin entry doors. A tall dark immortal stepped into the center aisle, silhouetted in the gray light of dawn.

"Now I'll have to write another report," Joe lamented.

A powerful buzz sent shivers along Richie's naked body, and he lunged for his jacket and his sword.

"Oh!" Angie started awake and pulled the blanket up around her.

Richie backed into the wooden panel of the choir loft, clutching his jacket in front of him. He blinked away the sleep in his eyes. Amanda stood not ten feet away, looking disheveled and tired. "Richard," she said softly. "It's all right. It's just me."

Angie rose unself-consciously and padded over to him. She draped the quilt around them both. "It's OK," she said matter-of-factly. "You just had a bad dream."

Richie shook his head, still not fully awake.

"I'm sorry I woke you," Amanda said. "I'm looking for Duncan."

"He's next door in the church hall," Angie responded. "We'll be over there soon."

***

"Amanda!" Duncan embraced his lost love with one arm while juggling Mary in the other. Amanda clung to him a little longer than she might ordinarily have done. He felt tears rise to his eyes. "I was worried about you."

"Me?" Amanda said, with a tiny sniff. "You know I can handle a little earth movement."

"I was worried," Duncan repeated, and he stroked her hair.

Mary gurgled in his arms and began patting Amanda on the head. "Duh-duh!" she chortled.

Duncan laughed. "No, no, darling, that's Amanda. I'm Duncan. Can you say 'Duncan'?"

"Doo-doo!" Mary shrieked.

"Guess we'll have to keep working on that."

Amanda laughed and slipped out of his embrace. She spotted Anne, who was just emerging from her little clinic, and the two unlikely girlfriends hugged gleefully.

Everyone's just a little happier to see each other than usual, Duncan observed. "Where have you been?" he asked Amanda.

Amanda looked at the doctor. "That's a long story..."

Anne reached for Mary. "I know what that means," she said. "Let me take Mary, and you two can talk. Then we'd better start thinking about what we're going to feed all these people." Although it was still quite early in the morning, most of the people in the room were awake and getting ready for the day.

Duncan kissed Mary before handing her back to her mother. Then he turned to Amanda. "Let's go outside," he suggested.

The first rays of sunlight cast long shadows over the wreckage of River Street. Duncan led Amanda to a spot on the sidewalk where no one could overhear them. Behind the trunk of a leafless sycamore, he pulled her into another embrace, kissing her face and neck with fervor as he rejoiced in her safe return. Amanda received his attentions passively, and then extricated herself from his arms.

He brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "How did you find me?" he asked. "I was afraid we would miss each other."

"I should have known you'd come here first," Amanda said lightly. She smoothed her hands over his chest and fiddled with the buttons on his coat.

"Darling," he assured her, "I didn't think you'd be back to the dojo for dinner yet. I was afraid you'd be buried in some boutique somewhere...and I didn't know where." He kissed her forehead. "I'm sorry, love."

Amanda nodded and, to Duncan's surprise, wiped away a tear.

"Where were you?" he asked.

"I was on my way home from the fitness center."

"_Fitness _center?"

Amanda didn't respond to the question. "I knew you were still trying to find Czeslaw, so I just headed over to Capitol Hill to see if you were all right."

"You knew I was there?"

Amanda looked up at him then. "Oh, please, Duncan! Even if you weren't the world's worst liar, I know you well enough to know you'll never let go." She sighed in regret. "I should never have come here."

He was confused. "What do you mean?"

"When I left France, I thought I had everything under control." She sighed again. "I never expected Czeslaw to catch up to me here. And then...when we set the New Year's date, I knew I could slip away in time."

"You knew he was after you?" Duncan pulled back.

Amanda nodded. "For ages. But he's been getting closer lately. I thought I'd come see you, we'd have a nice visit, and then I'd be off..."

"A nice visit?" he said, stunned. "Is that what this has been to you, a _nice visit?_"

"Well, I certainly didn't come for a rescue mission from the great Duncan MacLeod!" she retorted. "I'm perfectly capable of fighting for myself. I've been working out for months. And then you go and offer him your head, even after Czeslaw tells you he doesn't want it, you pigheaded idiot!"

"You saw him?" Duncan's voice rose in fear and anger. "You saw him?"

Amanda opened her jacket, revealing the torn and bloody blouse beneath it. Exclaiming in horror, he reached out to touch her. Amanda stepped back out of his reach.

"You fought him?" Duncan asked. "Is he..."

"No," Amanda said. "I got away. But not before he told me about you." Her voice shook. "And James."

Duncan touched her cheek. "You didn't know, then," he said.

"Well, no." Amanda kept her tone light. "I heard something later about the money that was supposed to go to some army, but what did I care about that? Neither side meant anything to me. Give an army money, you just prolong the war."

He put his arms around Amanda and pulled her to his chest.

"Why would James do something like that?" she wailed. "He had everything in his favor. He would have had a brilliant career. He had friends. He had looks. Why would anyone kill themselves over money?"

"I don't know," Duncan said, thinking of James's family and his reputation. Neither of those things would mean much to Amanda.

She wept into his coat. "He was a sweet boy. It's _ridiculous _that he should kill himself. Ridiculous! He didn't even live to be thirty! Not even thirty years, Duncan."

He rubbed her back. "I know," he said. "I know."

Eventually Amanda pulled away and dashed the tears from her cheeks.

"Are you going to let me help you now?" he asked.

"No," Amanda said firmly. "I would never have led Czeslaw to Seattle if I'd known the full story. And I shouldn't have come here looking for you, either. But I couldn't leave without saying good-bye."

"Amanda, you can't leave. Not without me. Not now."

"I never wanted you fighting my battles for me, Duncan." Her eyes regained a little of their customary sparkle. "Well, not most of the time." She kissed him. "And certainly not this time."

"I love you, Amanda," Duncan said, desperate to make her understand. "_Love _you. Do you understand what that means? I need you. I want to be with you. And I need to be able to help you."

Amanda looked away. "I never wanted that kind of love."

"It's not just up to you!"

"Duncan." Her voice was steely. "We both know that we don't have many years left. We've had some wonderful times together. If Czeslaw kills me now, at least I'll die for something I deserve instead of being just another pawn in the Game. If you manage to get yourself killed trying to defend me, what will that accomplish? Just another stupid, meaningless death."

"Your _life _means something to me." He stepped in close, forcing Amanda to back up against the tree trunk.

"_Your _life means something to _me! _I don't want that on my head. I never wanted...I _never_ wanted to feel this way. I never wanted that kind of love. The price is too high."

"Too late," Duncan whispered.

"No, it's not," Amanda said. "I'm leaving, and you're not coming with me." She maneuvered her way out of his encircling arms. "When it's over, if I'm still alive, you can decide what you want."

"Amanda, I won't just—"

She cut him off, pointing to a middle-aged man who was lumbering toward them, looking exhausted and grim. Duncan turned to the intruder without bothering to hide his exasperation.

"Aren't you Duncan MacLeod?" the man asked.

"Yes."

"Thank God." The man's knees gave way, and he nearly collapsed. Duncan grabbed for his elbow and helped him sink to the curb.

"Can you direct me to Richie Ryan?"

Duncan hesitated, trying to remember when he had last seen his student. "Amanda," he said, "do you know where Richie is?"

She was gone.

***

Angie folded the quilt around herself as Richie sat in the choir loft and pulled on his jeans.

"What were you dreaming about?"

He didn't look up as he fumbled with the button. "Um...I thought somebody was watching us."

"Willa?"

I wish, Richie thought. He smiled up at her and lied. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Then it _was _a nightmare!"

Richie laughed. He stood, wrapped his arms around the bulky quilt, and pulled Angie in for a hug. She tucked her head beneath his chin and sighed in contentment.

Richie closed his eyes. It's like holding a teddy bear, he thought, and then laughed at himself. When did I ever have a teddy bear? And why am I thinking about that when this is Angie, and she's naked underneath this quilt? He slipped one hand beneath the heavy cloth to cup her breast. "Don't get dressed yet," he suggested huskily.

Angie chuckled and hiked the quilt up higher under her arms. "We can't. There's sure to be someone else in here in a minute."

He pouted. "I never get to see you in the light."

"You'll get your chance," Angie teased. "But only if you can find my shoes for me."

"Done." Richie bounded over to the front pew.

"Ow!" A four-inch sliver of yellow glass sliced deeply into his heel. Blood surged from the wound.

"Richie!" Angie hurried over to him, stepping as carefully as she could through the debris. "Let me look at that," she said worriedly.

Shocked, Richie gaped at her briefly and then grasped Angie's arms so tightly that she winced in pain. She tried to push him down onto the pew and he shook her. "No!"

"Richie, what's wrong?"

He could see that his reaction was frightening her, but he couldn't think what to do. Angie couldn't see him heal. She couldn't find out about immortality. It was too dangerous. It was too _soon_.

"Is it the blood? Sit down and let me see."

He held her away, stiff-armed, so that she couldn't see his injured foot. "No," he said, his throat suddenly dry. "It's fine. Go get dressed." But he didn't let go of her arms.

Angie lifted her head and stared daggers at him. "Richie Ryan, you let go of me right now."

He took a deep breath and released his grip. Shaking his head apologetically, he slid his hands back and forth over her bare arms, as if to rub away the red marks he had left there.

"Now sit down," Angie said in a voice that brooked no argument.

Richie sank reluctantly onto the pew and immediately slid away from her. He propped the bloody foot on the opposite knee and swiftly extracted the shard of glass from his heel, tossing it into a far corner.

Angie cringed in sympathy. "Let me see."

He stuck his foot behind the seat. "It's OK, I'll just hop over and ask Anne to look at it."

Angie knelt in front of him and grasped the back of his ankle, lifting his foot and cradling it in her hands. Richie shivered, both horrified and comforted by her touch. "God, Angie, don't—"

"It's pretty deep," she said. "We should clean it up right away."

He looked down at her hands, covered in his blood. Only then did he realize the immediate danger. Frantically he tried to pull his foot away, but she only gripped it more firmly. "Angie, let go!"

Too late. The little electric charge that signified the immortal healing process flashed across his foot and sent an unexpected bolt of pure energy up his spine. Richie shuddered; Angie screeched and jerked away as if burned. She tumbled backward onto the floor.

"Angie!" Richie scrambled to her side heedless of the scattered glass that covered the area. "Angie!"

She lay on her back, stunned and speechless. He hovered over her, his hands waving helplessly, afraid to touch her. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he continued to pray her name. "Angie, Angie, Angie."

She blinked up at him a minute later—though Richie would have sworn under oath that it was an hour, at least. He sank back on his knees and covered his face with his hands, weeping from sheer relief.

Awkwardly, Angie raised herself up on one elbow. She cleared her throat. "What happened?" she asked. "Richie, what was that?"

He shook his head. Yeah, explain that, a snarky little voice said inside his head. You're ready to handle a relationship with a mortal, aren't you, Mr. I-Can-Lie-My-Way-Out-Of-Anything?

Angie struggled to sit up. "Are you hurt?" she asked. "Richie, are you all right?"

He wiped his face and laughed a little to cover up the sob that needed to push its way out of his chest. "I'm fine. Fine. I just thought I killed you."

"Richie," Angie demanded, "tell me what happened!"

"Are you OK? Do you feel OK?"

"Richie!"

He stood and spread his hands. "I can't tell you. I don't know." He hung his head. Words had never so completely failed him.

"Yes, you do." She glared up at him, frustration and anger coloring her voice. "You do know."

He couldn't deal with this now. He had to think. Buy time. "Are you OK, Ange?" He worked to make his voice calm. "I think you got an electric shock." He reached out to touch her for the first time since she had fallen, and Angie drew away from him.

"Tell me the truth." Her eyes locked on his.

Richie was silent for a long, painful moment. Finally he looked away. "I can't, Ange," he said. "The truth is, I can't."

She tried to stand, but the stiff packing quilt hindered her mobility. Richie tried to help her.

"You can keep your hands off me," Angie snapped. She stumbled, and one end of the quilt dropped away from her body, revealing her left flank. The imprint of his fingers, already darkening into a purple bruise, was obvious on her buttock and the back of her thigh.

"Angie," he gasped. "Did I do that?"

She gathered the quilt around her in a huff, oblivious to his concern. "I can't believe I slept with you, and you won't even tell me the truth. I can't believe it!" She scooped up her shoes.

A torrent of words flooded through him—too late for anything but apologies. "Angie, I didn't mean to hurt you. God, I didn't! I didn't know I would! And that shock...I forgot, Angie, I'm sorry, I—"

He broke off, infuriated by the sudden and unwelcome intrusion of another immortal. "Oh, God damn it!"

Duncan pushed open one of the double doors and stepped into the church.

"Mac, give us a minute," Richie demanded.

The other door opened next to Duncan, and a second man entered.

"You have one minute to get your hands off my daughter and get out of here," Angie's father said. "Before I wring your neck."

***

"Put these on," Duncan instructed, shoving Richie's shirt and shoes into his arms. He resisted an urge to laugh. The situation might have been comical if Richie weren't so visibly upset—and if Amanda weren't getting further out of reach with every second.

Richie slumped to a seat on the steps outside the church. "You didn't have to _drag _me out," he complained.

"I was afraid you might have to explain your immortality a lot sooner than you expected," Duncan said dryly. Fathers, he reflected, hadn't changed much in the last four hundred years. He hefted Richie's jacket, making sure his sword was securely stashed inside.

Richie smiled faintly. "You have no idea." He shrugged into his shirt and bent to pull on his shoes. Duncan hadn't managed to collect his socks.

"What was going on in there?" Duncan asked. Richie's string of apologies had been clearly audible at the church door, and tear tracks were apparent on his dirty face.

Richie glanced up at him quickly before returning his attention to his shoelaces. "Gee, Mac, what do you think?"

"That's not what I meant," Duncan said, and then he made an effort to let Richie hear his concern. "And you know it."

Richie finished tying his shoes. "It's none of your business, Mac."

Duncan sighed. "Fine. It's none of my business." He sat down on the step beside Richie. "Look, I have to take off for a while. Amanda was here for a minute, with Chet on her trail. She disappeared when Angie's father showed up."

Richie blushed pink. "Yeah, we saw her."

"Oh." Duncan didn't pursue the subject. Obviously Amanda had walked in on Richie and Angie before he had. Perhaps that explained the couple's argument. "I'll stay until you've had a chance to talk to Mr. Burke."

Richie stood. "No. You should go."

Duncan stood, too, and handed Richie his jacket and sword. He hesitated, unsure if Richie would welcome his advice. "Rich, don't take this lightly. Family is important. Just apologize to her father and give him some time to cool off."

"I can handle it, Mac," Richie said brusquely. "Just go find Amanda, OK?"

"You'll stay here with Willa and Anne?" He touched Richie's damp and dirty cheek.

Richie wiped his face, as if realizing what he must look like. "I'll be good," he said with an exaggerated sigh.

Duncan smiled. "If you'd been good, you wouldn't be in this mess." He pulled Richie in for a quick hug. "I'll be back as soon as I can. Stay out of falling buildings, would you?"

"Yeah, yeah," Richie grumbled.

Duncan released him. "I'll be back," he promised.

Richie sat down to wait for Angie and her father to leave the church. "Sure, Mac," he said. "That's what they all say."

For nearly half an hour Richie shivered on the steps, rising several times to listen at the church door. There was no yelling, but he thought he heard Angie crying. He cursed his own stupidity. Why hadn't they just gotten dressed after Amanda came in? Why hadn't he left the damn glass in his foot until he could bandage it in private? He clutched his fingers in his short hair. What if Angie told her father about the shock? Which would her father think was worse—almost killing Angie, or having sex with her when she was too upset to know what she was doing? Not very considerate sex, either, Richie remembered with chagrin. The kind that leaves marks on people who aren't immortal. Was an apology going to fix that? With Angie or her father? He rubbed his sweaty palms back and forth on his jeans. Damn, damn, damn.

Finally one of the heavy doors was pulled open from the inside. Angie emerged, her step slow and her eyes puffy and red. Mr. Burke followed.

Richie jumped to his feet. "I'm sorry, Mr. Burke," he said. "It was all my fault." He faced Angie, and tried to put as much meaning as he could into his next words. "I'm sorry, Angie. I didn't want things to happen that way."

She gazed at him as if she didn't understand what he was talking about.

He struggled for a better explanation. "I mean, I..."

"Richie," Angie interrupted, "I have to go home now."

"You're going?" He looked at her father, whose stony face was sculpted with fatigue, sorrow, and disappointment. "OK," he agreed quietly. "Can I come see you later?"

Angie shook her head. "No," she whispered, and she headed down the steps by herself.

Richie appealed to her father. "Don't be mad at her."

"That's not important now." Mr. Burke passed a hand over his face. "Angie's mother is dead," he said. "She was killed in the quake yesterday."

Richie's heart plummeted, his own worries and fears swept aside by shock. He stared at Mr. Burke. "Angie's mom..." he faltered. "She was killed?"

Mr. Burke's hand dropped to his side. "Yes," he sighed. "And we have to get back to my son. We need to be together now."

"Oh, God," Richie gasped. "I'm so sorry."

Mr. Burke nodded numbly.

Richie turned away from the older man's sorrow and hurried to Angie, who stood at the bottom of the steps, her head hung low. He put his arms around her, and she fell into a stiff hug. "Angie," he said. "Angie, I'm so sorry." He began to cry, unashamed, new tears streaking down his grimy cheeks.

Mr. Burke walked down the steps to the sidewalk and put a hand on his daughter's shoulder. "OK, honey. Let's go home."

"Can I help you get back?" Richie asked. "Can't I do _something?_"

Mr. Burke looked right through him. "Good-bye, Richie," he said. "We'll try to let you know about the funeral arrangements." He directed his daughter down the sidewalk that led to West Seattle, and they departed without so much as a glance back at Richie.

***

With no inkling of where Amanda might have gone, Duncan decided to return to Capitol Hill. Amanda—thank God!—was not inclined to take on battles she could avoid, so she probably wasn't heading _toward_ the man who was hunting her. If he could find Czeslaw, however, Duncan might be able to stop the chase altogether. Or die trying.

Less than an hour later, he reached the car he had abandoned the evening before. He was somewhat surprised to find the T-Bird intact—although someone had apparently eaten, and probably spent the night, in the back seat. He climbed in and backed away from the fallen light pole that still closed off the street in one direction. Driving cautiously, he cruised through the neighborhood, straining to feel the presence of another immortal. He felt nothing. Broadway Avenue was deserted except for its usual night-time residents, the street kids who likely found this day little different from any other.

Duncan tried his cell phone again, but an "all circuits busy" message blasted into his ear. He closed the phone and headed the car toward the dojo. There was a slim possibility that Amanda would go there to pick up her things. But then where? Every radio report pleaded with people to stay in their homes. Sea-Tac Airport had shut down and all major bridges were closed for repair or inspection, effectively isolating whole sections of the city. Buses weren't running. Duncan snorted faintly to himself. As if Amanda would take a bus!

Four miles short of the dojo, he had to park the car and walk. He encountered his first rescue personnel not far from his home, where a three-story apartment building had collapsed in on itself. It was clearly too late to pull anyone out alive. He walked on. The damage was uncannily random. On one block, everything appeared normal, at least from the street. Then he would turn a corner and confront the remains of another home or business.

When he reached the dojo at last, he found the building virtually uninhabitable. The exterior brick, so much more brittle than wood, had not held up well under the stress of the earthquake. Peering in a window, he saw that the stairs that led to the locker rooms had fallen onto the dojo floor. The front door wouldn't open, and the elevator wouldn't have been safe in any case, so he climbed the fire escape to his apartment on the top floor.

He forgot about Amanda for a moment as he contemplated the interior of the loft. His armoire and bookshelves had toppled, and the kitchen shelves had emptied their contents onto the floor. He allowed himself to feel regret for a few minutes, and then he let sentiment pass away. He'd lost or abandoned many homes over the centuries; he was mildly surprised to discover that he would miss this particular one.

He checked for Amanda's things. She hadn't been back. He changed into some clean, warm clothes before tossing cash, photos, passports, and mementos into a carryall, together with some bottled water and a change of clothes. On his trip back down to the sidewalk, the metal stairs creaked ominously and began to detach from the building wall. He had been lucky.

He stood in the street, feeling every bit as helpless and indecisive as the mortal passersby. Think! he told himself. The airport was closed. Ground transportation was severely limited. And Amanda hated hiking. What was left? Water, he finally realized. We're surrounded by water.

With a sigh and a prayer, Duncan started walking toward the nearest ferry terminal.

***

Richie climbed the stairs to his room and sat on the sofa, head in hands, trying to sort out the emotions that churned inside him. It was hard enough just to remember the morning's _events. _Holding Angie. Amanda and Joe watching them. No, Joe hadn't been there, that was just a dream. But Joe said I was putting Angie in danger, and that was right, wasn't it? I knew damn well Chet was on the prowl, but I had Angie alone there with me. So stupid! I can't protect her from predators like that—I can't even protect myself. So Mac has to go out fighting other people's battles for them, and now he might never come back. Chet might kill him, or he might have to take Amanda somewhere to hide, and the last thing Mac will remember about me is that I hurt Angie.

God, I hurt Angie. I didn't stop even when I was hurting her, and she looks almost as beat up as I used to be, except this time it's Angie and I did it. _I_ did. I knew it was wrong, especially in a church, especially with a mortal, and the whole time her mom was dead. Her mom. Her mom who always packed an extra sandwich in Angie's lunch in case I didn't have one. Her mom who knitted me sweaters and threw me a birthday party when I was nine and always said I had beautiful hair, like an angel.She's an angel now. And I could have killed her daughter, too—hell, I practically did, just with my quickening, nearly killed her a lot faster than any diseases Anne thinks I've got. Mr. Burke might not have had a wife _or_ a daughter. He'll never let me see Angie again. Not that it matters—because Angie knows. She knows that I'm a freak and a liar, and even when this is all over she'll never let me touch her again.

He rolled onto the sofa on his side and clutched a pillow to his chest, struck by the realization that he had lost Angie forever. Because even if she were foolish enough to take him back, his only choices now were to leave her or to destroy her future.

"Richie?" Willa stood in the doorway, holding a stack of clean sheets and blankets. "I asked a friend to bring by some linens since you gave up yours for Rajiv."

"Arrgh," he made a strangled sound and buried his face in the pillow, consumed by embarrassment. He had forgotten anyone else was in the building.

He heard Willa enter the room. She sat beside him on the sofa and rubbed his back with one strong hand. "What's wrong, Richie?" she asked in a motherly way that tugged at his heartstrings.

He sat up and made an attempt at composure. "Shit," he complained. Then he remembered that Willa didn't like that kind of language. "Sorry." He took a deep breath. "Angie. Angie's mom is dead."

"Oh, no!" Willa exclaimed. "Oh, no. That poor girl."

He nodded. "It was the quake."

"Where is Angie?" Willa asked.

"She went home. With her dad."

"Why didn't you go with her?"

Richie smiled. "Because they didn't want me. Angie didn't want me."

Willa patted his arm. "I'm sure that's not true. Grief takes people different ways. She probably just wants to be with her family now. She's going to need you later."

"Yeah," he agreed half-heartedly. He sank back into the sofa, wishing Willa would leave. Pretty soon he would have to start lying again.

"You must be thinking about your own mama," Willa observed.

"Nah. I never knew her." Richie smiled ruefully. "Hell, I don't even _have _a mother." Willa would never know just how true that was.

"I see two pictures stuck in that lamp shade that tell me different."

He looked over at his desk, where he had posted some pictures of Tessa Noel and Emily Ryan. "They just...they felt like my mom sometimes, but they weren't," he explained. "Angie's mom was the real thing."

"It's the love that makes it real, Richie."

"Love just makes it _hurt,_" he said sourly. "It doesn't change the way things are." He shrugged and shook his head, regretting his little outburst. "Sorry. It's just that everything's all f...all messed up. Thanks to me. I don't know what to do."

"Well, now." Willa sank deeper into the sofa and considered his words. "You can't change grief; you just have to help Angie see it through. But there's plenty for us to do around here right now. Maybe the best thing is to stop worrying and start doing for somebody else."

"Yeah, sure," Richie said. He examined Willa closely for the first time that morning. Her eyelids drooped, her lipstick had long since melted away, and she'd lost one earring. "But you've been up all night. Why don't you sack out here on the couch for a while?"

To his surprise, Willa agreed to a nap. He covered her with the blanket that she had brought for him. Then he grabbed one of his last clean shirts, scrubbed his face with spit and a washcloth, and went back to the church hall. He spent the rest of the day with his neighbors, hauling debris, digging a latrine, boarding up windows, and trying his best not to think about how Angie, Mac, and Amanda were getting through the hours.

***

Early the next afternoon Duncan trudged back into Richie and Willa's neighborhood without Amanda. He had searched every ferry terminal, bus station, and private airstrip that he could think of. No one had recognized his picture of Amanda. No one even had any idea how to get out of town. What little transportation was available was reserved for the sick and injured.

Over the course of the night, Duncan had gradually abandoned hope of finding his love. Still, he kept walking and kept asking questions, surveying other pedestrians who were as unkempt and distraught as he was. He tried to put his faith in Amanda's resourcefulness. She was alive somewhere. The fact that she was not with him was unimportant. But he didn't stop his search until the sun was up, when a continuing series of aftershocks turned his thoughts back to Richie. He began the long hike back to the hardware store.

At midday he glimpsed a woman in a muddy pink sari striding ahead of him. The man who accompanied her was just as obviously Indian. Duncan's heart contracted. For a moment, he considered taking another route or simply bypassing the two. Then, ashamed of his own cowardice, he used his rusty Hindi to ask the man and woman their names. When his worst fears were confirmed, he switched to English to break the news of Rajiv Sharma's death as gently as he could.

Sadhana Sharma had responded to the news with stunned silence. Whether her stoicism was founded in shock or disbelief, Duncan didn't know. Her brother Anant was more obviously shaken. Neither seemed able to move. Duncan had considerable difficulty shepherding the siblings back toward the Sharma home. At Sadhana Sharma's insistence, he directed her first to the store on River Street where her son's body lay. He himself headed for the church hall, anxious to escape the grief of the two unfortunate strangers.

Duncan dropped his carryall on the floor and greeted Anne and Mary with open arms. They happily returned his embrace.

"You look exhausted," Duncan observed.

"We've had a lot of new trauma cases," Anne said. "When the police found out there was a doctor here, they started sending me patients from all over."

"Can I help?"

Anne shook her head. "You look exhausted, too. And things are under control at the moment. Fortunately, I've had a lot of volunteer nursing staff. And babysitters."

Duncan nodded wearily. "Where are Richie and Angie?" he asked.

Anne put Mary down to play on an old blanket. "Don't you know?"

He cocked his head. "Know what?"

"Angie's mother was killed in the quake. Four people died when the roof of a grocery store collapsed. It's been on the radio. Didn't Richie tell you?"

More death, Duncan thought. Oh, God. He shook his head. "No, I haven't seen him since yesterday morning."

"Where did you go, Duncan?"

He tried not to hear an accusation in her question. "After Amanda," he said. "Someone's hunting her."

"Oh," Anne said. She bit her lip.

"And Richie and Angie are...?"

"Angie went home with her father. Richie's been a big help with the clean-up. Last I heard, he was over at the store, trying to straighten up."

Duncan sighed. How foolish he had been to think that he could avoid that griefstricken place. "I'd better go talk to him."

 

 

Four women in heavy coats clustered just inside the doorway of the hardware store. The plywood that covered the front windows snuffed the weak afternoon sunlight. Richie had cleared a wide pathway through the store, pushing glass, debris, and furnishings to the far wall. Empty metal shelves hovered menacingly over the shadowy pile of broken objects. Upstairs, Duncan could hear a woman wailing. As if in sympathy, a small earth tremor shuddered across the floor. The waiting women looked up at the aftershock, but no one spoke.

He took the stairs to the second floor. Willa and an elderly black man wearing a clerical collar stood in the hallway with Rajiv's uncle while Sadhana Sharma wept over her son's body. Duncan greeted Anant with a prayerful bow and murmured his sympathy before pulling Willa aside for a whispered conversation.

"Can you tell me where Richie is?"

Willa turned her dark, sorrowful eyes on Duncan. "He was here with me a minute ago. I don't think he could stand it when the boy's mama came in." She pinched the bridge of her nose and blinked away a tear. "Don't know if I can stand it myself."

Duncan brushed Willa's arm sympathetically. The ululating cries of Rajiv's mother brought a lump to his own throat. Amanda, he thought. Where are you? If you're dead, how will I find you? How will I weep over you?

He tried to push aside his black thoughts. "Do you have any idea where Richie might have gone?" he asked.

"No, but he's upset. He's been wound up tighter than a drum since you and Angie left."

Duncan rubbed at the bristly stubble that shadowed his face. "I need to find him."

Willa considered. "I hear the bar down the street is selling liquor out the back door. You could try there."

"Thank you," Duncan said. He stepped down the gloomy stairs and out the back door, pausing in the alley to contemplate the sky. The clouds of previous days were clearing, foretelling a cold night for a city still without electricity. He pulled his coat closer around him, shivering from fatigue and anxiety rather than the anticipated chill.

He had no difficulty finding the tavern owner, who recalled Richie and was even able to point out where the young man had headed after making his purchase. Duncan set off after him, heading back toward Capitol Hill. He hoped forlornly for a short trek, as his feet and back ached and his whole body demanded sleep.

Nearly forty-five minutes later, he found Richie in a desolate neighborhood not far off Broadway Avenue. He felt Richie's presence at almost the same time that he noticed a puff of cigarette smoke emanating from behind a low concrete wall. Immediately thereafter he heard a scuffling noise. A figure stood on the wall above the drainage channel, a sword in his hand.

"Richie!" he called. "It's me, Richie."

Richie wavered, and then lowered the sword. "Mac?"

Duncan approached slowly. "Yeah, it's me, Rich."

Richie jumped off the wall and sheathed his sword. "Hey, Mac. I was afraid you were..."

"I know," Duncan said, "I'm fine." But in fact he didn't know—had Richie had been worried about his survival, or had Richie mistaken him for Czeslaw?

Richie smiled. "Did you find her?"

"I couldn't find Amanda _or _Chet," Duncan despaired.

Richie made a sympathetic noise and sat on the concrete wall. He pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his jacket and offered one to Duncan, who shook his head. "So he's still out there," Richie observed.

"Yes, but I think we'd know if he and Amanda had caught up with each other," Duncan said, trying to inject the words with confidence. "Joe would have found a way to tell me."

Richie exhaled a plume of cigarette smoke. He didn't agree or disagree.

Duncan sat beside Richie and rested a hand on his shoulder. "I guess Rajiv's mother got to you."

Richie didn't look at him. "Man, he was just a little kid_._ How's anybody supposed to understand that?"

Duncan leaned forward, nearly resting his heavy head on his knees. "I understand it," he said. "It's _my_nightmare."

Richie held the cigarette out in front of him, inspecting it. "Yeah, I guess you can't pull a sword on an earthquake."

"No," Duncan croaked. "A sword doesn't help with most things." He sat up. "Anne told me about Angie's mother."

Richie put the cigarette back in his mouth and inhaled deeply. "Yeah," he said softly.

"How is Angie doing?"

"I don't know." Richie shrugged. "We're breaking up."

"Breaking up?"

Richie nodded, his face revealing nothing of his thoughts.

Duncan closed his eyes, repressing the questions and protests that rose immediately to his lips. He eased himself off the wall and sank down to sit on the narrow strip of pavement above the canal. A few moments later, he lifted his head. "I could use a drink," he suggested.

Richie smiled and reached inside his jacket for a bottle of Scotch. He handed it to Duncan. "It's not hundred-year-old cognac, but it'll keep you warm."

Duncan accepted the bottle and took a long drink before passing it back to Richie. Richie drank, then sat down on the pavement and placed the bottle between them.

"I know it's none of my business..." Duncan started. "But why?"

"You heard it," Richie said cryptically.

"Heard it?" Duncan repeated. "You mean yesterday morning?"

Richie nodded and stubbed out his cigarette.

"I don't understand."

Richie leaned back against the wall and stared out over the stark urban landscape. "I hurt her," he said quietly. "I almost killed her."

Duncan shook his head in disbelief and pushed away the heavy hair that fell over his eyes. "I don't understand, Rich. What happened?"

"She was touching me when I healed."

He moved the bottle out of the way and slid closer to Richie. "You can't kill someone just with your quickening, Rich. Sure, it hurts like hell, but it won't kill you."

"Yeah?" Richie said. "I didn't know that." He reached for the bottle and took another drink. "It doesn't make any difference, though. She knows something's seriously weird."

"Damn." Duncan rested his head against the concrete wall.

Richie drank again. "Yeah."

"We'll find some way to explain it," Duncan declared. "She's going to need you, Rich. You remember what it felt like to lose your mother. It's not much easier when you're older." He took the whiskey bottle. "Besides, you're in love with her."

Richie shook his head. "No," he said.

Duncan wasn't sure what he was denying.

"I don't want to make something up," Richie insisted.

"Have you thought about telling her the truth?"

Richie smiled. "Don't you remember Donna and Jeremy, Mac?"

Duncan swirled the golden fluid inside the liquor bottle. "That was different, Rich," he said thoughtfully. "We'd just lost Tessa. Kern brought Little Deer and Kahani back into my heart. I didn't want you to feel that kind of hurt.

"Besides," he went on, "there was a child involved. I didn't think you were ready for that kind of responsibility. And..." he hesitated. "You have to know Donna didn't love you, Rich. And you didn't love her. If you're going to bring a woman into your life, it should be someone you love. And trust."

Richie mulled over these observations for some time. "I trust Angie," he said finally. "That doesn't mean it's good for her to trust me."

Duncan harrumphed his protest.

"It's not just the sword stuff," Richie explained. "I'm not exactly Mr. Right even without all that."

"That's for Angie to decide, isn't it?"

"C'mon, Mac." Richie reached for the bottle. Duncan released it reluctantly.

"I'm not saying you should tell her everything," he said. "But let's talk about it."

"There's no point," Richie said. "If I do that, it's like saying we're going to be together forever, isn't it? And we're not."

"No?"

Richie shook his head.

Duncan sighed and squeezed his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Rich," he said. "I thought...it made me feel good to see the two of you so happy together. I didn't think how it might end." He sighed. "I should have listened to Amanda."

Richie chuckled. "Yeah, that'll happen."

Duncan cuffed him and grabbed the bottle back. They sat together for several minutes as the sun inched closer to the horizon. The temperature continued to drop until they could see their own breath hanging in the air.

"We should probably head back," Duncan said. "Willa's worried about you. So is Anne."

Richie nodded, but he didn't get up.

"Why did you come here?" Duncan asked. "I thought you hated this place."

"There's no place like home," Richie said with a glimmer of a smile. "Every gutter punk has his gutter. This is mine."

Duncan rubbed at his temples. He had to sleep soon. Exhaustion was catching up with him. "Why do you say things like that?" he asked. "You haven't lived on the street in years."

Richie snorted and reached for the bottle. "Try months, Mac."

"Oh." Duncan slid his hands inside his coat to warm them. A few months ago Richie had been on the run—from him. "I guess I'm pretty dense," he said.

Richie sipped slowly from the bottle.

"Will you tell me about it?" Duncan asked.

Richie shrugged.

"Please," Duncan added. He knew that Richie had killed two immortals in Portland the previous year, but he knew little else. If drink and emotion had inclined Richie to be more communicative, Duncan would happily encourage him. He had never made the mistake of equating Richie's forgiveness with his trust.

"I thought you were dead," Richie said, wiping his mouth. "I thought you had to be. Seeing as how you weren't trying to cut my head off." He smiled, enjoying the irony. "I was worried about _you._"

Duncan winced at Richie's blunt assessment of his behavior after the dark quickening, but he didn't challenge it. "How did you end up on the street?" he asked.

"Where do you think people live if they haven't got any money?"

Duncan was silent. The dark quickening had cost Richie his job, his home, his belongings, and his friends. In many ways, Richie had suffered more from its aftereffects than anyone, despite the guilt that still overwhelmed Duncan every time he recalled his own actions. He had murdered his friend, Sean Burns. He had cruelly seduced and then terrorized an innocent woman—and brutally beaten her husband. He had injured or threatened many others, including both Joe and Methos. And, of course, he had turned on the one person who loved and needed him most.

"I'm sorry," Duncan offered. He knew from experience that the words were hopelessly inadequate, but that no other words would help.

Richie nodded, seemingly satisfied.

Duncan fished for something more to say. "Is that when you started smoking?" he asked in a nonaccusatory tone.

"And drinking, and doing dope," Richie said. "And ripping off stereos. Perfect boyfriend material, huh?"

"That's in the past, Rich. Angie wouldn't hold that against you. Not if she knew what happened."

"I already told her," Richie said. "I just didn't tell her about the...you know, the guys I killed. And that Russian bitch. And don't tell me Angie would understand that, because I know she wouldn't."

For the first time, Duncan heard the influence of the alcohol in Richie's voice.

"Hell, I don't understand it," Richie added.

Duncan stood and pulled Richie up with him. "Let's go home."

Richie thrust the half-empty bottle of Scotch inside his jacket and allowed Duncan to steer him over the wall and down the sidewalk. Two blocks later he stopped to light a cigarette, pointing out a band of teenagers half-hidden under a nearby overpass. "I must still look like them," he said abruptly. "Can you believe some john actually hit on me on my way over here? The city's falling down, but he's gotta get some. I guess some things never change." He took a drag on the cigarette. "Like me. Never gonna change."

"What happened?" Duncan asked worriedly.

"You should have seen the look on his face when I pulled my sword." Richie grinned, his perfect white teeth gleaming. "Then I punched his lights out!"

"Good," Duncan said, his relief profound. He didn't think Richie would kill someone for propositioning him, but still...

He waited impatiently while Richie puffed on the cigarette. "Please, Rich. We'll die of hypothermia out here."

Richie laughed. "I think I might be better off dead, at least until we get the hot water back."

Duncan sniffed. "What are you complaining about?" he asked. "You don't smell nearly as bad as I do. Except for the cigarette."

"I thought you were used to this," Richie said with a smile.

"Cold, yes. No electricity or running water, yes. But not...not this," Duncan said, indicating the homeless teenagers, the litter-strewn street, the brackish water trickling through the dark drainage channel. "I hope to God Amanda has found a way out."

"Me too, Mac."

Duncan stared at the overpass, whose underbelly was quickly disappearing into the blackness of night. "I don't suppose there's any chance they'd come back to the church with us?"

"Nope," Richie said. "This place isn't as scary to them as you are."

"Me?" Duncan asked. His eyes watered, and he shuddered with fatigue. He turned suddenly back to Richie. "Are you scared of me, Rich?"

Richie dropped the cigarette and crushed it beneath his foot. He was momentarily silent. "Sometimes," he admitted. Duncan breathed in sharply, and Richie retracted his statement with one of his better smiles. "Mostly when I screw up," he joked.

Duncan released his breath and watched it condense and billow out into the night. "I love you, Richie. Like my own child. My son. Do you know that?"

Richie passed a hand over his forehead and through his short, curly hair. "Yeah, I know," he said sheepishly. "What do you think I'm scared of?"

Duncan gaped at him, at a complete loss for words.

"C'mon, Mac," Richie said. "Let's go home."

***

To Richie's relief, Duncan said nothing during the rest of the walk back to the church hall. The two men entered the dimly lit room and headed first for the small kitchen area.

"There you are!" Willa clucked. "I saved you some dinner." She handed them paper plates filled with cheese sandwiches and potato chips.

"Thanks," Richie said tersely, knowing Willa would not approve of the alcohol on his breath. "I'm gonna take this back to my room."

"Just a second, now," Willa said. "I've got some news. First, there's a crew repairing our water main, and we should have running water by tomorrow."

"That is good news," Duncan agreed.

"No electricity yet, but I'll settle for indoor plumbing." Willa smiled with considerable satisfaction. "And the best news is that our phones are working again! The US West man says only a third of the city has service, but at least we can call out."

Duncan immediately reached for the phone inside his coat and handed it to Richie. "Try Angie," he suggested.

Richie shook his head and backed away. He wasn't nearly ready to talk to Angie.

Willa gripped the arm of Richie's jacket, pulling him closer. "Angie called here a half-hour ago, looking for you, Richie."

"Oh," he said, frustrated. How could he explain that the best thing he could do for Angie was to keep his distance?

Willa went on. "She and I had a good talk. Her mama can't be buried for a week or so, until the city gets everything sorted out, so I suggested her family might want to join Rajiv's memorial service here tomorrow afternoon. The Burkes' church is closed down for repairs, and I think they need to have some way to say good-bye."

"Willa!" Richie protested. "You shouldn't have done that!" He dropped his plate on a nearby table and left, ignoring Mac's call. He felt sick, and not from the whiskey in his veins. He had taken advantage of Angie, bruised her, then given her a near-fatal shock. And now he would have to break off their relationship _at her mother's funeral? _It was too much.

He jogged across the street and scuffled through the unlit store, wishing he had picked up a lantern before taking off on his own. He could hear quiet voices in the upstairs room that held Rajiv Sharma's body, but the stairway was dark.

He paused at the foot of the stairs to consider whether he really wanted to spend the night alone in a room next to a corpse. Just as he turned to leave, he felt the approach of another immortal. "Mac?" he called. He heard someone pull open the door from the alley and step into the back corridor.

Seeking shelter, he jumped behind what remained of the store's back counter. "Amanda?" he asked, his heart pounding. "Is that you?"

A dark shape moved from the hallway into the store. "Where is she?" Czeslaw demanded.

Richie drew his sword. He was trapped behind the counter, his back to the wall. He couldn't get to either the front or the rear door without facing the other immortal.

Czeslaw approached, his own sword barely visible in the gloom, his arms relaxed at his side. "I asked you a question," he said.

"Get out of here!" Richie's mouth was so dry that he could barely speak.

"As soon as you tell me where she is."

Desperate to escape from his self-made trap, Richie feinted a stab at Czeslaw's chest, hoping to vault over the counter while the other man was distracted.

It was a foolish move. Czeslaw slammed his wrist against the countertop and disarmed him with ease. Before Richie could recover, two mammoth fists clenched in his jacket and the older immortal hauled him roughly over the countertop. The bottle of Scotch inside his jacket shattered, drenching Richie in the acrid liquid.

He tried to dive for his sword, only to be yanked back, almost casually. Czeslaw wrapped an arm around his neck while calmly sheathing his own sword. Then he slammed Richie back against the counter, grasping his arms to pin him in place.

Richie struggled furiously. "Stop it!" Czeslaw ordered.

Richie kicked, attempting to dislodge Czeslaw's footing, and the other immortal jammed a knee into his groin with enough force to permanently emasculate a mortal.

"Stop it _now,_" Czeslaw commanded.

Stars exploded in Richie's vision. He groaned in agony and would have dropped to his knees if the other man had not held him upright.

"I'm only going to explain this once," Czeslaw said. "Amanda killed a mortal I loved. She destroyed his family. She caused suffering to hundreds of others. And she'll do the same to you and anyone else who crosses her path, without even a second thought."

Czeslaw's words seemed to come from another room; it took a while for them to penetrate through the fog of pain. Richie shook his head—a mistake—and cleared his throat, not sure if he had a voice left to respond. "Amanda didn't kill any mortals," he protested weakly.

"You're a child," Czeslaw sneered. "You can't see what she is. Perhaps you even treat mortals as carelessly, as _viciously_, as she does."

The accusation wounded Richie, reminding him of all the ways in which he had hurt and lied to Angie in just the last few days. "You goddamned, fucking faggot!" He kicked out wildly. "What the hell do you know about it?"

Enraged, Czeslaw thrust his full weight against Richie, arching him back over the counter in a painfully intimate embrace. Richie tried to jerk away, but Czeslaw's enormous hands stapled his wrists in place.

"Tell me where she is!" Czeslaw roared. He pressed relentlessly forward, straining Richie's back nearly to the point of snapping. Richie fought back, determined not to let himself be taken easily. Then, with an oath, Czeslaw swept a boot beneath Richie's toes, lifting his feet up off the floor. With no leverage, Richie tipped over backward, flailing helplessly. He panicked, knowing he was now completely at Czeslaw's mercy.

Czeslaw growled impatiently. "Tell me!" he repeated.

Richie closed his eyes and tried to regain some semblance of self-control. 'Not here,' he told himself. 'You're not here, not here, not here.' But he was. He could smell the cheap liquor that soaked his jeans and hear his own breath coming in short, uneven pants. Czeslaw's muscled leg nudged between his thighs. "Do we have to start over?" he asked.

Richie shuddered, feeling the darkness close in on him. "Don't!" he pleaded. "Don't!"

Czeslaw released him. Richie cried out in relief and dropped to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest.

Czeslaw stood before him, waiting for Richie's ragged breathing to ease before he spoke again. "The young woman you spent the night with," he said. "You care for her?"

"Oh, God," Richie moaned. "Don't hurt her. Please don't hurt Angie. Do whatever you want to me, but don't hurt Angie!"

"Don't you understand?" Czeslaw asked. "Amanda destroyed the person I loved. I want justice for him. The fight will be a fair one. All I'm asking is that you tell me where she is."

Richie looked up at the man who towered over him, grateful that his own ignorance would spare him the shame of revealing Amanda's secrets. "I don't know," he confessed.

Chet glared at him a moment before stepping aside to pick Richie's sword off the linoleum. He placed it on the countertop. "I'm going to kill her," he said flatly. "Stay out of my way." He turned and walked out the back door.

Richie didn't move. A few seconds later he heard quiet footsteps on the stairs.

"Are you well?" a man whispered in an Indian lilt.

Richie laughed. "Fine," he said, and he put his head on his knees and didn't speak again for a very long time.

***

The night that followed had a disjointed, dreamlike quality. Later Richie remembered flashlights bobbing and people milling about the store, asking him questions that he didn't answer. At some point someone had fetched MacLeod, who appropriated Richie's sword and bundled him up the stairs and onto the couch. Mac dismissed Willa and Anne and Rajiv's uncle and God knows who else. "Chet?" was the only question Mac had asked, and Richie couldn't recall what he had mumbled in reply.

He woke several times during the night, comforted by the tangible sensation of Mac's presence. The snoring Highlander lay stretched out on the floor just inside his door. At about three in the morning, Richie awoke filled with terror, suddenly remembering that Chet had threatened Angie, and that Angie was coming back to the neighborhood that very day for the memorial service. He leapt off the couch, almost tripping across Duncan as he searched frantically for his jacket and shoes. Only after many reassurances and promises did Mac persuade him that there was no need to trek across Seattle in the middle of the night, and Richie reluctantly agreed to go back to bed.

Shortly after dawn, he was roused by the ringing of a telephone. He heard Mac say "Joseph!" and then speak groggily into his cell phone for a minute or two before moving out into the hall. Richie lay on the sofa listening to the rise and fall of Mac's baritone voice. The conversation seemed to go on for a long time, finally taking on an urgent, angry tone that conjured up all sorts of worrisome visions in his imagination. Was Angie OK? Was Amanda? Richie got up and dressed.

Duncan entered the room, the phone conversation apparently ended, just as Richie was ready to leave. "Go back to sleep," Duncan ordered.

"No! What's going on? Is everyone OK?"

"Everyone's fine. We'll talk about it later." Duncan grasped Richie's jaw and turned his face toward the daylight, examining him. Annoyed, Richie jerked away.

"Are you all right?" Duncan asked.

"Of course," Richie said. Talk about your stupid questions! He pushed past Duncan and made his way down the hall to the bathroom.

He stared at himself in the mirror. He looked like hell, there was no denying that. He didn't even want to think about what he was going to tell Mac about the confrontation with Chet. His cheeks flamed, recalling his seeming helplessness both during and after Chet's appearance.

Without thinking, Richie turned on the faucet. He was more than a little surprised when cold water actually spurted into the sink. He laughed, pleased by the small step toward normality. Then he shaved and jumped into the shower, doing his best to ignore the icy water as he scrubbed and scrubbed. Shivering, and not feeling nearly as clean as he would have liked, he shut off the water and began to dress.

Down the hall, he heard Willa and Mac talking, followed by the voices of Mrs. Sharma and her brother. He cracked open the bathroom door. Three city workers in dirty coveralls tramped up the stairs to collect Rajiv Sharma's body.

While Mac and Willa were preoccupied with the workers and Mrs. Sharma, Richie slipped outside. He had a few hours to think about what he was going to say to Angie, and he had no intention of having any more heart-to-heart talks with anyone before then.

***

At one o'clock Duncan paced in the street as Joe Dawson leaned against the sturdy railing of the church steps and watched him fume. The families and friends of the dead had assembled for the memorial service, but Richie was nowhere to be found.

Duncan felt as if his life were spinning out of control. If Czeslaw was still in town, Amanda must be, too. So she was alive. But where? How could he help her? And where the hell was Richie? He kept imagining worst-case scenarios: Richie fleeing town. Richie drunk and distraught under a bridge somewhere. Richie dead under a bridge somewhere.

I'm going to tan his hide, Duncan thought fiercely. If only I get the chance, I'm going to...Damn! He struck himself in the forehead, recalling belatedly Richie's all-too-real scars. He closed his eyes and offered up a prayer as penance. 'Dear God, just keep Czeslaw away from him. I don't know what's going on, but please, just keep Czeslaw away from him.'

He paced back to Joe. "You're sure you don't know where Richie is?"

Joe shook his head. "I told you, Mike's off taking care of his own problems. The quake has made it damn near impossible to keep track of everyone."

"Sorry," Duncan mumbled. Joe had overcome numerous obstacles to drive across town in time for the memorial service, and Duncan had done nothing but badger him since. No matter how much he had pressed, Joe refused to supply any information about Czeslaw's whereabouts.

The Highlander crossed his arms and sought a reasonable compromise. "OK, don't tell me where Czeslaw is. Just tell me where Amanda is."

Joe sighed and shook his head. "It's not that simple, MacLeod. Neither of their Watchers works for me. They're both based in Europe. I can't just call them up and demand information. Besides, chances are they've both lost their immortals in all this mess."

"You can try."

Joe shifted his weight from one prosthetic leg to the other. "Mac," he said, "Amanda and Czeslaw are both adults. Maybe it's time we all step back and let them work this out."

Duncan covered his face with his hands and counted to ten before speaking again. "This isn't just about Amanda anymore. Czeslaw has threatened Richie and even Angie. Do you want to _watch_ while Richie and Czeslaw 'work things out'?"

Joe flinched in the face of his undisguised fury.

"Fine! Don't tell me where Amanda is. Just find her. Talk to her Watcher, get him to have Amanda call me. If I can talk to her...if I ask her to lead Czeslaw away for Richie's sake, she will."

"That could be a death sentence."

"For God's sake, Joe!" Duncan's voice broke. "I'm begging you. Just let me talk to her."

Joe acquiesced. "All right," he said sorrowfully. "All right. Enough. I'll do what I can."

"Thank you," Duncan whispered.

Joe focused on his feet as he made his way down the steps. At the bottom, he squeezed Duncan's arm in a futile attempt at comfort. "You go on in," he said gruffly. "I'm going next door to make some phone calls."

***

Richie crept inside the crowded church about twenty minutes into the memorial service. Mac was seated on the aisle about halfway up, next to Anne and Mary. When their quickenings touched, the Highlander turned and glared at him. The expression on Mac's face telegraphed something along the lines of "Where have you been—I've been worried sick—what's wrong—don't _make_ me come get you." Richie shrugged apologetically and sat in the back anyway.

Rajiv's mother, uncle, and two others—possibly grandparents—were finishing a prayer in Hindi. A group of young schoolmates filed to the front of the sanctuary and began to sing a simple hymn.

Richie rested his head against the back of the pew and listened. He felt a peculiar envy of the dead boy. At eight, he hadn't had a single relative in the world. His school friendships were fleeting, continually severed by frequent moves. And early on he had decided not to allow himself to develop an affection for any of his foster parents, whom he generally thought of as his temporary wardens.

When he met Angie in the third grade, they had formed an immediate alliance against bullies, domineering teachers, and bad-tempered bus drivers. They fought together, played together, told each other their deepest secrets. Still, when he was sent back to the Children's Center in the fifth grade, after a particularly vicious battering by foster father Frank Bianconi, Richie had known that he would never see Angie again. The first time that Angie and her mom appeared in the visiting room, he was so flabbergasted that he could hardly squeak a greeting. When they returned again and again, he began to believe, against his better judgment, that it might really be possible for friendships to outlast a change of address.

Angie and her brother Alan walked arm-in-arm to the pulpit and supported each other as they spoke about their mother and her love for them. Richie held back tears by focusing on Angie. She was luminous, standing up there so strong, even in her grief. He remembered what it had felt like to hold her, to touch her hair, to kiss her. She had stood right in that spot and said that she loved him, that she needed him.

He felt as if he should wither away from shame. He had taken Angie's love, knowing he couldn't return it, knowing that sooner or later he would have to reject it, and her. And, if truth be told, knowing that he endangered her just by his presence. Still he had done it. He had taken what he wanted, exposing her even that very first time to another immortal's threats. And now he was going to send her away just when she needed him most.

When, he admitted miserably to himself, he needed _her_ most.

Angie and Alan returned to sit beside their father, and a church member moved to the upright piano. Willa rose and stood solemnly in front of the choir loft. Richie leaned forward. He had never heard his friend and employer perform.

The pianist struck a few simple notes, and Willa's contralto filled the room.  


Sometimes I feel...like a motherless child   
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child  





Richie listened, at first so struck by the sheer emotional power of Willa's voice that he didn't register the words she was singing. The congregation around him was just as captivated.

Willa closed her eyes and moaned her complaint to God.  


Sometimes I feel like a motherless child   
A long way from home   
A long way from home  





Richie flung himself back against the pew. How could she be singing that? How could she? Angie had to hear this!

Willa continued, loneliness and sorrow infusing every phrase.  


Sometimes I feel like I'm almost gone   
Sometimes I feel like I'm almost gone  





He wanted to stand up and shout "Stop!" but the people around him didn't seem to share his feelings. They nodded, swayed, and hummed with Willa, giving voice to their own recent losses and displacement.  


Sometimes I feel like I'm almost gone   
A long way from home  
A long way from home  





Richie bolted for the exit, hardly even noticing that Joe Dawson stood in the open doorway, entranced by the music. He stumbled down the stairs and collapsed to a seat on the bottom step. He fished in his pocket for a cigarette, only to toss it away in disgust.

"Richie?" Anne Lindsey was making her way down the stairs with Mary on her hip.

He looked up and nodded at her, not trusting himself to speak.

Anne sat down beside him. "Duncan wanted to come after you, but I told him not to."

Richie smiled ruefully. "I owe you one." The baby reached out her arms for him. "Can I hold her?" he asked.

"Of course."

He lifted Mary into his lap, where she pulled at the buttons on his jacket. He buried his face in her curls. "She's so lucky," he said wistfully.

"I'm lucky, too," Anne pointed out.

Richie smiled.

"Richie," Anne said gently, "I did look at your patient records."

He nodded, focusing on Mary. "So you know."

He stiffened when Anne slipped an arm around him. "You could have told me, Richie. I would never judge you for something someone else did."

"Does Mac know?" he asked, as if that were his only concern. He shifted away from Anne.

"Not from me."

"Thanks." Richie didn't say anything more. As far as he was concerned, the conversation was over.

Anne tried again. "Richie, abuse this severe is bound to affect you and your relationships with everyone around you. There are ways to get help."

"Angie already knows," Richie said. "We've got bigger problems than that."

Anne's brow furrowed, but she didn't contradict him. "And what about what happened last night?" she asked.

Richie was quiet for a moment. He jiggled Mary on his knee. "You've seen a quickening, haven't you?"

Anne nodded.

"So you know what's it like. One immortal kills another one and gets the biggest...buzz...a guy ever got. So, so what if some asshole raped me when I was a kid? At least he didn't get off on killing me. The way I look at it, it was just job training."

"Richie!" Anne was outraged. "Sexual abuse kills trust, it kills spirits. You were a child, and someone hurt you so badly that you can't even acknowledge it. But if you want to make a life with Angie, you're going to have to deal with your feelings now."

"See, that's the thing," Richie said. "I can't make a life with her. In any sense of the words."

He looked down at his feet. "I guess the only thing I can do is have sex with her. And try not to kill her in the process. And that's not really good enough, is it?"

Anne took his face in her hands. "You can love her. You can let yourself feel. When you do, you'll feel love as well as pain. It's worth it, Richie. Please believe me. It is worth it."

People began to trickle out of the church. Richie stood and helped Anne up. He handed Mary back to her mother and then kissed Anne lightly on the cheek. "Thanks," he said. "I mean it. But I'm not like you. No happy endings."

"Richie—"

"There she is," Richie said, as the Burkes exited the church. "I should get this over with."

***

Joe intercepted Duncan at the church doorway. "We lucked out," he said. "Amanda's Watcher lost her when she gave you the slip, but he just picked her up again. It took some arm twisting, but he's going to let her use his phone."

Joe punched in the number of Amanda's Watcher and handed the phone to Duncan. "Amanda's waiting for your call."

Duncan took the phone like a drowning man grabbing a lifeline. He nodded his thanks to Joe before hurrying back inside the church where the Watcher couldn't overhear his conversation.

"Amanda! Where are you?"

He heard Amanda sigh theatrically. "Duncan," she objected. "I thought you just needed to talk!"

"All right," he said, reining in the emotions that were sure to frighten Amanda off. "All right." He sat in one of the pews. "Listen to me. Czeslaw has been hanging around here, trying to get information out of Richie." His voice dropped. "I think Czeslaw hurt him. Richie's scared. And he says Czeslaw threatened Angie."

"Blast!" Amanda cursed. "I've tried everywhere I can think of, but I can't seem to get out of this damned city until the bridges are reopened. I spent my last dollar bribing a yacht owner to get me out, and then the National Guard appropriated his boat! Now I have no cash and my banker seems to have gone underground—literally." She paused briefly. "Duncan, just find Czeslaw and tell him where I am. I'm next door to Draco's Bar. Running isn't working any more. We might as well fight it out. I'm ready."

"No!" Duncan said. "We don't have to do that. I have cash. We can get out of town _and_ lead Czeslaw out of here. I can meet you in less than an hour—a few minutes, if the streets are clear enough to get through by car."

"You'll probably just lead Czeslaw here," Amanda pointed out. "But...I guess, one way or the other, that will work."

"I'll make sure I'm not followed," he promised. "Stay there. I'm on my way. I love you."

"I love you, too," Amanda said, and she closed the connection.

Duncan hurried outside to where Joe stood on the sidewalk. He returned the phone to the Watcher.

"So?" Joe asked.

"I'm going to her," Duncan said. "I need a favor."

"Why am I not surprised?" Joe asked the surrounding air.

Duncan ignored him. "Do you know where Richie and Angie are?"

Joe nodded. "I can find them."

"Get them into the church, and keep them on holy ground as long as you can. I want them out of Czeslaw's reach. You stay with them. If Czeslaw tries to make trouble, just tell him where we are. I'm meeting Amanda near Draco's on Capitol Hill—you know, where her 'bank' is. If you have to make a choice between Richie and Angie or Amanda and me, you give up the information. As soon as we can, we'll make sure Czeslaw knows we've left town anyway. Got all that?"

Joe shook his head despairingly. "You are hopeless, MacLeod, you know that?"

"Thank you, Joseph." He flashed Joe a smile and dashed toward the church hall to find Anne. He had to borrow a car, and quickly.

***

Richie's mumbled words of condolence to Mr. Burke, Alan, and Angie were so awkward, so pointless that he wanted to slink away and hide. When Angie put her hand in his—and Mr. Burke didn't object—he didn't know if he should be happy or sad. Something inside him said it didn't matter what he _should_ feel—he was never going to be unhappy about being close to Angie. And he was never going to get another opportunity, either.

The couple walked hand-in-hand past the doors of the church hall, where people were turning in for the postfuneral reception. They made their way slowly and silently down the sidewalk. As they passed a bus stop, Angie pulled on Richie's hand. They entered the little structure that sheltered a bench for waiting passengers.

Angie didn't sit down, so Richie leaned against the wall and pulled her into his arms. They held each other, still without speaking.

Richie wanted to cherish the moment, but he was too aware of their tawdry surroundings, the cold breeze, and his own dirty clothes. Angie deserved so much better. Someday she was going to get married, and have kids, and live in a nice house, and go to work in a big office—and this was what she would remember about her mother's funeral. It wasn't right. There should have been priests, and incense, and flowers.

"You did great up there," he said into Angie's hair. "I was so proud of you."

She sighed. "I thought I'd cry, but I guess I'm all cried out."

"I can't believe Willa sang that song," he huffed. "Why would she do that?"

Angie pulled back far enough to kiss him lightly. "I asked her to," she said. "It was how Alan and I felt. And I wanted you to know that now I understand a little bit about how you feel, too."

"Oh, Angie," Richie said miserably. "It's nothing like that."

Angie went on. "I remember when we were little you used to get this look in your eyes sometimes, and you always acted like you weren't the same as everybody else. It seems like the other kids and the adults treated you different, too. All because of your mom dying, and you not having anybody else."

"I am different, Ange. Not just because of that." Richie knew that he'd never have a better opening. He strained to remember the first line of the break-up speech that he had carefully rehearsed all morning. "I'm not—"

Angie interrupted before he could go on. "I'm sorry about what I said the other day," she said softly. "I didn't really want you to stay away. I just felt so guilty."

"Guilty? You mean, because you and me..."

"No!" Angie said. "Because Mom was dead, and I was with you, and it was wonderful. The whole time we were together, I didn't even think about her."

"Yes, you did," Richie protested. "You were worried about everybody!"

Angie unbuttoned his jacket and slipped her hands beneath the hem of his shirt. Richie shivered as her fingers touched his skin, sliding around his waist to his back. He wrapped his jacket around her, and she rested her head against his chest. "Not when you made love to me," she said. "After that, I never thought about anything but us."

"It was wonderful?" Richie asked tentatively. "But, Ange, I held you down, I hurt you, I didn't even wait...I mean, I know how to make love better than that! I don't know what was wrong with me."

"It was wonderful," Angie repeated as she held him. "Nobody's ever talked to me the way you did. Nobody ever made me feel so...wanted. And I never wanted anybody the way I wanted you."

She looked up at him. "Not every time has to be the same, Richie." She hesitated. "You didn't like it?"

"God, Angie..." Richie groaned. How could he answer that question? The longer this conversation went on, the worse it got. "Angie, we can't talk about this. It isn't right, especially now."

She smiled slightly and touched his face. "OK. Later. I just didn't want you to get the wrong idea."

"Wrong idea?"

"I'm not going to be one of your fly-by-night girlfriends, Richie."

He smiled at the notion that Angie could ever be such a creature.

"I want to be with you," she explained. "And I want you to trust me the same way I trust you. That way we can talk about anything, even if everything isn't perfect all the time."

"Angie, there's some stuff I just can't talk about."

She shook her head. "Come back to the house with me after the reception. You can—"

They heard someone approaching. Joe Dawson, breathing hard, clumped into the shelter.

"Joe?" Richie asked, resenting the interruption. He released Angie.

The Watcher looked acutely embarrassed. "Sorry, Rich," he said. "I know this is a lousy time. But MacLeod asked me to get you two _into the church._"

Richie stared at Joe blankly until the meaning of that phrase registered. Then he burst into action. "C'mon, Ange," he said, putting an arm around her waist and hustling her out of the shelter. He scanned the street for Chet. "This is no place to talk. Trust me, right? We gotta get out of here. Let's go sit in the church. It's OK." He kept up a constant string of patter as he rushed a bewildered Angie down the sidewalk.

Several people from the memorial service were still talking quietly outside the church. Richie settled Angie in a pew with strict instructions not to move an inch. Then he went back for Joe, who was carefully picking his way down the broken pavement. Richie took one arm to hurry the Watcher up the steps. "Where's Mac?" he asked urgently. "What's going on?"

"I told you _both_ to get inside," Joe grumbled.

The two men entered the church and Richie closed the double doors behind them.

"Joe!" Richie pleaded. "Where's Mac?"

Joe sat heavily and tried to catch his breath. "Relax, Rich. Everything's OK. I hooked MacLeod up with Amanda. He's going to meet her and help her skip town. He just wants you to stay out of the way until..." Joe's voice trailed off when he noticed Angie's approach.

"Until what?" Angie asked. "Out of the way of what?"

Neither Joe nor Richie had a ready answer. The awkward silence stretched for so long that Richie finally decided it wasn't even worthwhile to make something up. "Is Chet with them?" he asked Joe.

"Don't think so," Joe said. "They'll, uh, call him on their way out of town."

Richie nodded curtly before turning to Angie. His expression softened into something like regret. "Well, you wanted to talk," he said. "Let's sit down and I'll tell you what I can."

Joe's cell phone rang. "Dawson," he said. He listened briefly. "What? No, of course, I didn't call him! I told you, Amanda's a friend! Are you sure it's him?" He paused again to listen. "Well, tell Amanda to get the hell out of there, damn it!"

Joe ended the conversation and immediately dialed MacLeod's cell phone, ignoring Richie and Angie, who hovered nearby. The call didn't go through. He tried again and again.

Finally Richie took the phone from him. "Tell me what's going on."

Joe closed his eyes. "Amanda's Watcher just called, wanting to know why the hell I set her up. Czeslaw just drove up to Draco's, and he thinks I called the bastard!"

"How did Chet know where she was?"

Joe ran his hands through his hair until it stood on end. "How the hell do I know? I was trying to help, God damn it! Don't you or MacLeod ever, ever ask me for a favor again!"

Richie glared at him. "Give me your car keys," he demanded.

"Where are you going?" Angie asked.

"Not a chance," Joe replied. "You don't know the hand controls, anyway."

"Then we'll go together. Come on—move it!"

"Richie," Joe said, "the whole point of having you here was—"

"Do you think I'm a two-year-old?" Richie snarled. "Don't you have any respect for me at all? Do you think I'd let Mac walk into a trap while I hide out in a church?"

"MacLeod's just trying to look out for you," Joe explained. "The best he can."

"And I'm just trying to return the favor," Richie countered. "Unless you think I'm not entitled."

Joe groaned and rubbed at his thighs. "Get off it, Richie!"

"Screw you! I'll get another car."

Joe grabbed Richie's arm. "No, we'll go together. That may be all I can do, but I'll do it."

"I'm going with you," Angie piped up.

"No!" the two men said simultaneously.

"You have to stay here," Richie said. "Inside the church. Not outside. Not in the hall. _In the church, _you got that?"

"Now you're treating me like a baby. I'm not." Angie's eyes blazed.

Richie decided to be brutal. No matter what, he had to keep Angie out of this. "Angie, there's a serial killer out there. He wants to kill Amanda, and then he wants to kill you. He's afraid of holy ground, though. He won't come after you as long as you're here. So you have to stay here. I'd stay with you if I could, but I have to help Mac get this guy."

"Who?" Angie asked. "Who is he? Why don't you call the police?"

Joe pulled himself to his feet. "We don't have time, sweetheart. The police are busy. Please, just stay here. We'll be back as soon as we possibly can."

"Come on!" Richie urged the Watcher.

Angie pulled at Richie's arm, and he turned and kissed her hard. Then he rushed Joe down the church steps and shoehorned him behind the wheel of his parked car. As the car screeched away from the curb, Richie looked back to see that Angie had obeyed his instructions and had not ventured from the church to wave good-bye.

***

When they reached Broadway Avenue, Richie and Joe found the street practically deserted, its stores all closed to business until power could be restored. Joe passed Draco's Bar and parked on the other side of the street.

Before Richie could exit, Joe pushed the button that locked all the car doors. "Stay in the car!" the Watcher ordered. "If Amanda's Watcher told her what's up, she's long gone by now. We're just here to intercept MacLeod. I'm betting _he_ didn't take the potholes at 60 miles an hour."

Richie's heart rate picked up as he felt the flesh-crawling frisson that warned of another immortal nearby. He reached over Joe and unlocked the car doors himself. "Someone's here," he said coolly. "You know what to do._Butt out._"

"Damn it, Richie, I didn't bring you here to get you killed!"

Richie slammed the car door behind him, hardly even registering Joe's words. He drew his sword, letting it rest easily but securely in his hand, as Mac had taught him. He stalked across the street and checked first the building where Amanda's banker usually held office hours. There was no one there.

Next he pushed open the door to the bar. Inside was a long, narrow room, lit only by a few high windows along one wall. Richie could make out the figure of a man sitting at a table near the back. The man stood up—Czeslaw, judging by his height.

"You can put that sword away," Czeslaw said calmly. "I'm not going to fight you."

"Well, maybe I'm going to fight _you,_" Richie said. He bounced slightly on the balls of his feet, consciously preparing for any attack.

Czeslaw went to the bar and poured himself a drink. "I don't think you want to do that," he said.

Richie bristled. Did this jerk think he was still afraid? He was armed this time, and prepared to fight. "You don't know what I _want._"

Czeslaw's dark eyes appraised him. "You want to stop me from challenging Amanda. You want to protect her. You want to be a man."

"Damn it!" Richie said. "Get out here and fight!"

Czeslaw shrugged and reached beneath the bar for his sword. He lifted it, examined it, and then feinted at Richie across the bar.

"Out here, asshole," Richie said. He wasn't going to make the same mistake twice.

"Ah, so you do learn from experience," Czeslaw observed. He walked from behind the bar, raised his sword, and saluted Richie. "En garde," he said formally. Then he made a simple, artful lunge.

Czeslaw's condescension made the blood pound in Richie's ears. Don't lose it, he told himself. If this guy thinks you're a powderpuff, so much the better. He expertly parried Czeslaw's perfunctory attack and tried to remember what Mac had taught him about strategy. 'Be patient. Learn your opponent's strengths and weaknesses. Use every tool at your disposal.'

Richie stepped back and sideways, trying to take in the layout of the bar without losing his focus on Czeslaw. Czeslaw lunged again, deeper and more dangerously, and Richie countered fiercely, protecting his abdomen. He opened a gash across Czeslaw's chest, ducked his next blow, and managed to get in a kick to Czeslaw's shin before he had to jump away from the larger man's sword.

The drawing of blood seemed to change Czeslaw's attitude. He nodded approvingly at Richie and attacked in earnest. High blow, low blow, left, right—their swords plunged and parried so quickly that Richie could devote no thought to anything else. They parted briefly, both men breathing heavily. Richie felt sweat drip from his jaw. Czeslaw laughed incongruously.

A flicker in Czeslaw's eyes presaged the next rush. Richie sidestepped it neatly and caught his opponent in the side before he could regain his balance. Czeslaw grunted in pain. "Well done," he said.

OK, Richie thought. He's strong. But I'm faster.

Czeslaw kicked for his foot, trying to bring Richie down, but he jumped aside and lunged for the injured man's chest. His sword glanced off Czeslaw's ribs. With a triumphant growl, Czeslaw grabbed Richie's arm and jerked him forward and onto the floor.

Richie crashed head first into the brass foot rail of the bar. The world blurred and spun around him. He rolled over onto his back. In an instant, Czeslaw was on top of him.

Richie lay stunned, not entirely sure what had happened. He was having trouble breathing with 250 pounds pressing into his diaphragm.

Chet leaned in close, pinning his arms to the floor. "God, you're so much like him," he wheezed, trying to catch his own breath. "He always forgot that my reach was much longer than his."

Disoriented by the fall, Richie didn't understand what Czeslaw was talking about. "Get off me," he hissed through gritted teeth.

Czeslaw shook his head. "No," he said. "You don't understand. You're just like James. He wanted to protect her, too. His heart went out to her, that 'beautiful, delicate woman caught up in the battle for life and death'! He couldn't understand it. Couldn't take in what she really was."

"I'm not him!" Richie would have shouted if he'd had the breath for it. "Get off me!" He tried to shift his weight, kick, do anything to get the other man off of him. But Czeslaw was too much bigger, and too experienced a fighter.

"No," Czeslaw said. "We're going to wait here and see what Amanda really is."

"She's outta here," Richie said spitefully. "You lost her again."

"Perhaps," Czeslaw conceded. "Or perhaps she'll come back for her young friend."

Richie schooled his face into careful blankness.

"I wouldn't count on that myself," Czeslaw said, "but I don't think there's much doubt that MacLeod will come looking for you. And as long as Amanda can count on him to fight her battles, she's not going to be too far out of range. She'll want to be around to 'congratulate' the winner, you know." He ground his hips into Richie's pelvis, making his meaning clear.

Oh, God, Richie thought, closing his eyes. Not only is this bastard gonna rape me, he's gonna use me to get Mac and Amanda. Hot tears squeezed from beneath his eyelids, rolled down the side of his face, and trickled into his hair. But not Angie, he told himself. Angie's safe. I can stand anything I have to as long as she's OK. I can do this.

He opened his eyes and looked up boldly at Czeslaw. "I'll do whatever you want," he croaked. "I know how. A man is better, right? I may not be as old as Amanda, but I've taken some heads. You'll get a good quickening."

Czeslaw recoiled, cursing in a language Richie didn't know. Then he hauled back and slammed his fist into Richie's face, smashing bones and cartilage.

Yeah, Richie thought, just before he passed out. I know how to do this.

***

The moment he spotted Joe Dawson slumped against the side of his car, Duncan knew that his plan had gone badly wrong. He yanked Anne's car over to the curb and emerged with his katana in hand.

Joe looked up. The expression on his face confirmed Duncan's worst fears. "Why?" Duncan growled. "Why are you here?"

"I got a call," Joe explained. "Czeslaw and his Watcher showed up here just a few minutes after you talked to Amanda." He held up his phone. "I tried to reach you, but I couldn't get through. Where have you been?"

"Trying _not_ to be followed by Czeslaw or the Watchers!" Duncan snapped.

Joe covered his mouth. He looked as if he was about to be sick. "Mac," he said, "Richie came with me. He fought Czeslaw and lost. But he's alive. They're both in the bar."

Who would have thought a man could experience rage, gratitude, and terror simultaneously? Cold fingers clenched at Duncan's heart. "And Amanda?"

"I told her Watcher to warn her, since it looks like we got her into this particular mess. I think she got out of here in time."

Duncan could breathe again. He nodded and turned his back on Joe, dismissing all concerns but the forthcoming battle. Nothing else mattered now. He must be the victor, or both Amanda and Richie could soon be lost. He raised himself to his full height and squared his shoulders, consciously assuming the stance of a warrior—a warrior fighting now for the survival of his family. No quarter would be asked or given.

He strode across the empty street and opened the door to the bar. Warily, he stepped inside and gave his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dim light.

A morose Czeslaw sat at a table not far from the door, cradling a shot glass in his left hand. His right hand rested on his sword, which lay across the table top. Richie's sword lay next to his. Czeslaw stared back at Duncan, but did not move or speak.

Duncan looked past the older immortal. Richie sat in a chair at the table behind Czeslaw, his hands bound behind his back. One foot and leg jiggled in nervous agitation, betraying his apparent calm. He didn't lift his head to meet Duncan's eyes.

"Richie," Duncan said. "Richie!"

Nothing about Richie's posture altered. Concerned, Duncan examined his student. Richie's face was bloody, possibly from a broken nose, but his clothes weren't obviously bloodied or torn. So he probably hadn't been seriously injured in the earlier fight. Something, however, was clearly wrong.

Duncan shot an angry glare at Czeslaw. What the hell had happened here? He had expected to find Richie embarrassed, angry, and afraid—but not broken. Not like this.

Czeslaw offered no reply to his unspoken question.

Duncan shook himself. First things first. "Let him go," he demanded. "This is between you and me."

Czeslaw shook his head. "He challenged me, and I defeated him," he explained. "His head is mine, if I want it._He_ is mine."

Richie's head bowed lower.

Duncan's anger exploded. "If you kill him, I'll take your head before you can get up off your knees!"

Richie cringed at his words; Czeslaw appeared unimpressed.

"I told you, Highlander. My death or hers. Don't force me to add another death to the equation." Czeslaw rose and stood beside Richie, his sword at the younger immortal's throat.

Richie looked up then, his eyes feverish, bright with some emotion Duncan couldn't identify. "It should be me," Richie pleaded. "I fought him! Mac, please! Go away!"

Duncan held Richie's gaze for a few seconds, trying to convey his love and concern. Then he refocused on Czeslaw. "So your fine words are meaningless," he taunted. "You do kill children."

At that, Czeslaw hauled Richie to his feet. "Outside," he ordered. When Duncan didn't obey, Czeslaw lifted Richie's chin with the razor-sharp edge of his sword, sending a rivulet of blood down his neck. "Or I _will_ kill him here."

Duncan backed up to the door.

"Walk outside and stay where I can see you," Czeslaw instructed.

Duncan would have attacked almost anyone else. Czeslaw, however, was dangerously intelligent; the risks of noncompliance were too great. He turned and walked into the middle of the street. The captor and hostage moved outdoors as well, halting on the sidewalk outside the bar. Czeslaw gripped Richie's arm but held him as far away as possible, never looking at the younger immortal.

Richie clenched his teeth but made no obvious attempt to escape. "Not him!" he berated Czeslaw. "You have me. Not him!"

Duncan interrupted. "Now what?" he asked caustically.

"The alley." Czeslaw jerked his head toward the side of the building.

Duncan moved cautiously toward the secluded area, his eyes never leaving Richie. When his back was nearly against the far wall, he stopped. Czeslaw and Richie followed him into the gloomy, brick-walled canyon.

"Let him go," Duncan demanded again. "He doesn't deserve this kind of treatment."

Czeslaw cocked his head. "What exactly do you teach your students, MacLeod? That the Game is about the strong raping and conquering the weak? That the Prize is the pleasure of the kill?"

"What?" Duncan sputtered. He was here to fight for his family, not to debate the nature of immortality. He appealed to Richie. "Get away from him!"

Czeslaw pulled Richie closer. "No, not yet. I'm trying to illustrate a point."

Frustrated, Duncan flung his arms wide. "What is the point of this game? Let him go! We have a score to settle."

"And what can _our_ fight settle? Who is the better swordsman? Is that what matters? It won't bring justice for James Ogilvie or his family. And killing you will give me no pleasure, whatever your friend here may think."

"I don't give a bloody damn about your need for vengeance! You've threatened the people I love. You've hurt them."

Czeslaw shook Richie so hard that Duncan could hear his teeth rattle. "And the people I loved? Are they nothing to you? Unlike your Amanda, James would never have left me alone in an alley to fight for my life." The ancient immortal's voice dropped to a low growl. "And he would never have let someone else sacrifice life and honor in his stead."

Richie whimpered.

Enraged, Duncan took two steps forward. "LET HIM _GO!_"

Czeslaw threw back his head. "Amanda!" he shouted. "Amanda!" The call echoed inside the small space.

Czeslaw nodded. "Point made," he said coldly. He lifted his sword.

"Noooo!" Duncan leaped at Czeslaw, his own sword raised high.

Czeslaw shoved Richie hard, sending him face down into the pavement.

An instant later, Duncan's katana bit deeply down into Czeslaw's left shoulder. The Highlander wrenched his sword out of the dense bone. Czeslaw reeled backward, groaning in pain but still successfully parrying Duncan's subsequent blows with his one good arm.

The two men circled each other in the narrow space. Duncan heard Richie scuffling somewhere behind him. "Get out of here!" he commanded.

Czeslaw feinted at Duncan's left arm before making a lightning-fast slash into his right side.

"Mac!" Richie yelled. He stumbled awkwardly to his feet. "Stay away from him! You've got to stay away from him!"

All Duncan could think about was that he had to get Richie to safety. "Get out of here _now!_"

Again Czeslaw took advantage of Duncan's distraction, this time to nick his arm. Duncan retaliated by smashing a powerful kick into his opponent's kneecap. The two men parted, limping and panting as they bought time to recover from their injuries.

"Amanda!" Richie cried in horror.

Duncan pivoted to face the entry to the alley, where the afternoon sun sharply outlined Amanda's slender figure. Apparently both he and Czeslaw had been too preoccupied to sense her arrival.

Immediately Czeslaw moved into a defensive posture. The gleam of anticipation in his eyes sent thrills of terror through Duncan.

"Oh, no." Duncan's teeth bared in a ferocious grin. "This fight is begun. No one can interfere." He attacked furiously. A dozen blows drew blood but none ever seriously incapacitated Czeslaw. The other immortal simply used his speed, strength, and experience to avoid or block every major assault.

Duncan continued to seek out a weakness, but eventually, with something akin to despair, he realized that he had little chance of success. He couldn't defeat such a skilled opponent if the other man never risked an offensive move. He retreated for a moment, considering his options. No quarter asked or given, he reminded himself sternly. This is to the death. He lifted his sword again, preparing for another attack.

Amanda clashed her broadsword against his katana. Fearful of injuring her, Duncan jumped back. Czeslaw lowered his sword and took several steps back, resting lightly against the alley wall.

Amanda turned to Duncan. She stood erect and haughty despite her torn and dirty clothes. "You're the one who's interfering, Duncan," she said. "I told you. We could run away, or I could fight Czeslaw. But it's not your battle."

"Amanda," Duncan said raggedly. He glanced at Czeslaw, who was maintaining his distance, and risked reaching out to touch Amanda's cheek. "I looked everywhere for you," he said.

Amanda's dark eyes seemed enormous in her pale face.

"Let me do this," Duncan implored. "Please."

Amanda removed Duncan's hand from her face and kissed his palm. "Sometimes even I have protective instincts, you know," she said softly. "I don't fault you for that. But I can't let you die for my stupidity."

"Amanda—"

"No, Duncan. If you lose this fight, I'll be next. If you win this fight, we can never be together again. Is that what you want?"

"It doesn't have to be that way!"

"It does if I love you."

"Amanda, I...don't!" Duncan said incoherently.

"I don't need to add more years to my life," she said lightly. "But I'd be willing to give this love thing a try. If and when I'm free."

Duncan blinked away tears. What a time for a change of heart. He reached for Amanda again. "You don't have to prove your honor to me," he whispered.

She smiled at him knowingly, the wisdom of more than a thousand years shining through. "This isn't about honor, Duncan. That's what you've never understood."

He shook his head. "No," he pleaded.

Her mind was set against him. "Leave us alone now," Amanda instructed. She turned to Richie, who had watched Amanda and Duncan's exchange silently from a few feet away. "I'm so sorry, Richard," she said. "I thought I could stop Duncan before he walked into this. I didn't know you were going to be just as foolish as he is."

Richie shook his head frantically. "No, don't do it!" he said. "Don't fight him, Amanda! Please!"

Amanda turned back to Duncan. "You need to take care of Richard, Duncan. Go."

He nodded reluctantly and replaced his sword inside his coat. He brushed a kiss on Amanda's cheek. Then he put an arm around Richie, whose hands were still bound behind his back, and directed the young immortal toward the street. He didn't look back as he heard the clang of sword against sword.

Joe met the two men at the entrance to the alley. He was leaning heavily on his cane. "I tried to stop her from going in there," he mumbled.

Duncan nodded, knowing how impossible it was for any mere mortal to stand in Amanda's way.

"Get me out of this!" Richie shook off Duncan's arm and tried to lift his hands behind his back.

Duncan put a hand on Richie's shoulder—as much to steady himself as Richie. "Don't move," he warned. "Keep your hands in a fist." Carefully, he used his katana to slice through the duct tape. The minute he was free, Richie took off for the bar.

Too heartsick to follow his protege, Duncan sat on the sidewalk and listened to the battle. His imagination filled in all the gory details. The frenetic pace of the action told him that Czeslaw was no longer holding back.

Joe wiped an arm across his face and ventured a little closer to the alleyway. A small aftershock pulsated across the pavement, rattling nearby windows. He looked over his shoulder at Duncan. "Did you feel that?" he asked nervously.

Duncan didn't answer. Amanda had just moaned. He willed himself to stay seated. Every fiber in his body tensed, aching to go to her rescue.

Just then Richie raced from the bar with his sword. Seeing the wild look in his eyes, Duncan immediately rose to intercept him. "What do you think you're doing?" he asked gruffly.

"Mac, you can't let her!" Richie tried to push past him.

He threw an arm around Richie's waist and propelled him back down the sidewalk, anxious to keep Richie's flailing sword away from Joe. Richie kicked and bucked like a panicked horse.

The teacher in Duncan noted that his martial arts lessons had apparently had little effect. He let Richie struggle for a minute, and then wrapped both arms around him and pulled him close. "No," he said. "No, Rich. I need you here with me."

"Let me go!" Richie cried. "Mac, let me go!"

The ground shook again, more powerfully this time.

"Uh-oh!" Joe left the sidewalk and moved out into the street, eyeing the storefront for signs of instability. Duncan dragged Richie away from the building just as a sudden jolt sent the earth up half a foot and then down again in the space of a second. All three men tumbled to the pavement as glass fell around them. A few seconds later, the side wall of the bar bowed and then collapsed. Bricks cascaded into the street.

"Amanda!" Duncan scrambled to his feet and dashed into the alley. Czeslaw was there—bleeding from head to toe, but still tottering purposefully toward the far edge of the brickpile.

"No!" Duncan yelled as he spotted Czeslaw's goal. Amanda's right arm and leg were barely visible beneath the bricks. Duncan bounded toward the debris pile with Richie just behind him. Oblivious to any danger Czeslaw might pose, Duncan fell to his knees and began to pull bricks away from Amanda's body.

The ancient immortal approached, weakened now but no less determined. "You can't have her!" he bellowed. "I won't let her go again!"

Duncan didn't look up as he tossed bricks aside. "You'd kill her now, like this? What kind of a monster are you?"

Czeslaw released a howl of pure rage, an animalistic shout that recalled the battle cry of the MacLeods. He lifted his sword, apparently aiming to dismember his helpless opponent before she could revive.

His sword outstretched, Richie pounced between Czeslaw and Amanda. He barely managed to deflect Czeslaw's sword. "I'll kill you!" he shouted. "I'll fucking kill you!"

Czeslaw lunged at him. "You self-righteous little bastard! Do you _want_ to die?"

"Richie, no!" Duncan didn't dare tackle Richie—he might make him even _more_ vulnerable. "Stop it!" he pleaded with both men. "This has gone beyond one on one! Stop this!"

Richie plunged his sword into Czeslaw's chest with a ferocity Duncan had never seen in his student before. Czeslaw staggered but, amazingly, did not fall. Richie yanked his sword back and tried to strike again. With a muffled roar, Czeslaw swung his sword around like a boxer landing a roundhouse punch. The blade cleaved neatly between Richie's ribs and sank deep into his chest.

"Czeslaw!" Duncan wept openly. "This is not your revenge! This is not the way!"

Richie collapsed onto the broken bricks near Amanda's body. He moaned in terrible pain but didn't relinquish his sword. Czeslaw wavered over him, panting and grasping at his own nearly fatal wound.

Duncan knelt between Amanda's body and Richie, an arm stretched protectively over each. He looked up at Czeslaw. "You said they couldn't love," he said. "You said that immortals didn't learn how. Well, now you know you're wrong. You know it!"

Czeslaw laughed mirthlessly. "He hates well, too."

Richie groaned and attempted to rise, but Duncan held him back. "It's not his fault," he explained urgently. "He's been tossed in the street like garbage. He's been hurt and he hasn't had time to heal. It happens to a lot of young immortals. You know that." He appealed to Czeslaw as one old immortal to another. "You must know that he was afraid of you. And still he came here!"

Czeslaw closed his eyes and let his head drop back on his shoulders before responding to Duncan's plea. "You don't have any idea how afraid he was, do you?"

Richie grunted his protest at that. He pulled himself clumsily to his feet and struggled for his footing on the unstable heap of debris. He had difficulty lifting his sword.

Czeslaw stepped in closer.

Duncan jumped up and used his body to separate the two men. "Is this what James would want for his justice?" he asked. "If he saw what you're about to do now, would he approve?"

Richie stepped to the side and charged at Czeslaw, who blocked the attack with sufficient force to send Richie tumbling to the other side of the alley. Again Duncan tried to step between the two men, but Czeslaw's blade pressed flat against his coat. "Then give me Amanda! I've had enough of this. Her or me! That's all I want. I won't go to the Gathering as a sheep. After all these years, these centuries...I want some justice. I want some meaning. Is that too much to ask?"

Duncan shook his head. How many times had he wondered about the point of the Game? For how many more centuries had Czeslaw contemplated the same questions, faced the same losses? And as a despised minority within an already alien community, his loneliness must have been even more intense.

Duncan stared into the inky black of Czeslaw's eyes and spoke the truth as forcefully as he could. "No, it's not too much to ask. But killing Richie won't give you meaning. And it certainly won't give you justice."

"Then take him away and let me finish the battle I came here for."

Duncan rubbed a hand across his face, brushing away tears of fear and empathy. Amanda lay dead at his feet. A few yards away, Richie lurched to a stand and staggered back toward Czeslaw, ready to resume the fight.

The choice was his. He could almost certainly remove Richie from the field of battle, but he couldn't enter the fight himself so long as Richie's sword was drawn. The minute he withdrew, Amanda would lose her head.

He squared his shoulders. The helpless must be protected, but the Rules would allow him to save only one. And at this moment, Amanda needed him most. "No," he said. "I love him. But I won't let you kill her. And I won't force him to stand aside if it _means_ that you will kill her."

Czeslaw's eyes locked on his. "Then you know the Rules, Highlander. You'll have to step aside."

Duncan had run out of words. He had run out of choices. He stepped back. He could do nothing more for Richie now. Grasping Amanda's right arm and leg, he heaved her out from under the debris. Then he unearthed her damaged broadsword and stowed it in his coat. As he carried Amanda's body toward the street, he heard the battle begin again.

He forced himself not to listen or turn around. He staggered across the street and placed Amanda and her sword in the back seat of Anne's car. Then he returned to the alley's entrance. "Are you armed?" he asked Joe, who had observed the entire proceedings in silence.

Joe nodded.

"Good," Duncan said brusquely. He drew his katana and re-entered the alley to await his turn.

Richie's shirt and jacket were in ribbons and he was limping badly. He seemed in some sort of malevolent dream state, unaware of anything but Czeslaw. Duncan made no attempt to speak to him.

Czeslaw was so filthy and bloody that it was impossible to tell what current injuries he might be healing. He fought aggressively in an eighteenth-century style that Duncan recognized from his own training. A deliberate tribute to the memory of his long-dead lover?

Richie seemed infuriated by the formal nature of Czeslaw's attack. "You're not getting away this time!" he said raggedly. "I won't let you...I won't let you..." He couldn't seem to catch his breath.

Czeslaw stepped closer and dropped his arm—a classic maneuver meant to lure Richie within his reach.

"No!" Duncan cried, as Richie stepped into the trap.

Czeslaw made no attempt to protect himself from Richie's sword as it sank into his chest. Offered the perfect opportunity to gut or dismember the younger man, he swung his sword around—and halted inches from Richie's body. He opened his hand and deliberately let his sword fall to the pavement.

Czeslaw grunted as Richie pulled out his sword. He fell to his knees, his head turning to seek Duncan's face. He smiled. "Meaning," he explained simply.

Richie raised his arms for the coup de grace. "No!" Duncan shouted.

"James," Czeslaw whispered hoarsely as he gazed up at Richie. He closed his eyes. "James."

The sword fell, severing Czeslaw's head cleanly from his body. Richie dragged in one deep, shuddering breath and dropped his sword as if it were too hot to hold.

A blue cloud of energy began to form around Czeslaw's body.

Richie turned and stumbled through the debris toward Duncan. "No!" he begged. "No, Mac, make it stop!"

Duncan reached out to him. "Don't run, Richie! Stay here." He recalled all too vividly the special horror of being overtaken by an unwanted quickening. Facing it was at least better than being captured by it.

Richie's eyes widened in terror. He streaked past Duncan, leaping over debris like an antelope with a hungry lion on its tail. He sped past Joe and out into the street.

Duncan was right behind Richie, so caught up in the chase that he didn't even hear the squeal of brakes as a car nearly crashed into him. He jumped back to the sidewalk, pausing only long enough to see that Anne Lindsey was at the wheel. Angie sat next to her. He cursed violently in Gaelic and leaped over the car's hood. Richie was already halfway down the block.

Behind him Duncan heard an eerie, high-pitched wail. His skin sizzled as streams of energy blew past him and wrapped their tendrils around Richie.

Richie screamed.

Duncan threw his arms up over his face, unable to watch the gruesome spectacle. The wail of energy became a roar, and he was choked and battered by swirling dust, rocks, and broken glass. When he felt the street tremble ominously beneath him, he rushed back toward Joe. The bar was completely disintegrating under the impact of the new tremors. More bricks crashed into the alley, obliterating all evidence of the former battleground.

Anne and Angie had left their car to drag Joe away from the collapsing building. The three mortals huddled for shelter against the side of their parked cars. Angie's eyes were fixed on Richie. Duncan followed her gaze long enough to see that Richie was in the final, painful throes of the quickening.

He stepped close to Angie, both to restrain her and to protect her from the flying debris. As the wind howled and the air crackled with electricity, he spoke reassurances into her ear. "Wait. It'll be over soon. Then you can go to him."

Angie moaned in frustration.

Amidst the din of the quickening and the earthquake, the back door of Anne's car opened, and Amanda stumbled into Joe's arms.

"Duncan!" she shouted over the noise. "Is it..."

Duncan nodded at her over Angie's head. "Richie's alive," he said loudly. "He's alive."

Amanda leaned heavily against the car. Still weak, she didn't protest when Anne moved to examine her.

The roar of the quickening ended abruptly, though the earth tremors continued for another minute or so. Finally the street was quiet. "That's it," Joe said, coughing from the dust.

Duncan released Angie, who bolted toward the spot where Richie lay sprawled on the street. The others followed her in somber procession.

Richie was unconscious. Angie knelt beside him, her hands searching his bloodied clothes for wounds that needed attention. Finding none, she cradled his head and shoulders in her arms. "Richie," she sobbed. "Richie, wake up."

Duncan stooped beside her. "He's going to be all right, Angie," he said. "I promise."

Richie stirred in her arms. "Richie!" Angie called. He looked up at her dazedly.

"Welcome back, Rich," Duncan said quietly.

Startled, Richie sat up. At the sight of Duncan, Joe, Anne, and Amanda, he moaned. His hands instinctively rushed to cover the evidence of his climax. "Get away from me!" he said harshly. He pulled away from Angie. "Get away!"

Undeterred, Angie reached out for him. Richie rolled over, turning his back on the others. He lay on his side and began to cry, muffling his sobs in the pavement.

Unsure how to help either Richie or Angie, Duncan closed his eyes. Amanda leaned into his shoulder and put an arm around him while Anne tried to comfort Angie.

Finally realizing that Richie's most immediate need was for privacy, Duncan slipped his katana to Amanda and removed his trenchcoat. He stepped over Richie to tuck the garment around him.

Richie exploded into a frenzy. Before Duncan knew what was happening, he was on the ground and Richie was pummeling him.

"I'll kill you!" Richie screamed. "I'll kill you!"

Stunned, Duncan did little to deflect Richie's fists. He waved off Amanda and waited for Richie's rage to abate, knowing he was too exhausted to keep up the assault for long.

Sure enough, a minute or two later Richie got up and staggered away. He fell to his knees and clutched at his head. Angie went to him.

Richie grimaced. "Go away, Angie," he said. He didn't look at her. "Go away and leave me alone."

She didn't move. Duncan approached the couple slowly, careful of Richie's reaction. "Come with me," he said, as he put an arm around Angie. "Your father will be worried. We'd better get you home."

Richie's head drooped closer to the street. "Yeah, get out of here," he said wearily.

Duncan escorted Angie back to Joe and Anne, who had retreated to their parked cars when it became clear that their presence was upsetting Richie. Duncan fished in his pocket for Anne's car keys. "Take her back to the church," he said to the doctor. Anne looked at him quizzically, and he shook his head. Of course Angie would want an explanation. But at this moment, he simply couldn't bear to think about it.

Anne handed the keys back to him. "No, you keep them," she said. "We'll drive back in Willa's car, the way we came." She guided Angie into the front seat. A moment later Anne took the wheel and pulled the car away from the curb.

Too late, Duncan realized that the women might have difficulty getting back to River Street after the latest quake. He watched helplessly as the car turned the corner and vanished from sight. Oh, well, he thought numbly. Wherever they get stuck, it has to be better than here.

"What can I do?" Joe asked.

Duncan stared at him. "Nothing," he said. "There's nothing you can do." He strode away.

Richie was still kneeling in the street, but somehow Amanda had managed to approach him. She crouched beside him, stroking his head and murmuring words of comfort. Duncan stopped several yards away. He watched silently as Amanda knelt on the street behind Richie and slipped her arms around him. "It's all right, Richie," she said. "I'm going to stay with you. It's all right."

Richie sighed deeply and sagged back into her arms. Amanda's head dipped close to his. She continued to whisper consolingly as she nestled Richie to her breast.

Duncan rubbed a hand across his face. _I'm_ the useless one, he thought bitterly. Thank God for Amanda. In a crisis like this, there was no one else he would trust with Richie. No one.

Amanda glanced back at him. Duncan held up Anne's car keys and then tossed them near Amanda's feet.

"I'll be at the dojo," he said softly. Amanda nodded, and Duncan turned and walked away.

***

It was after three o'clock in the morning when Anne's car pulled up outside the dojo. Duncan met Amanda in the foyer, where she moved wordlessly into his arms. They held each other for several long minutes.

"Is everything all right?" Duncan asked finally.

"All right," she murmured into his shoulder.

He guided her slowly across the wooden floor toward the office, where he had dragged two exercise mats to form a temporary bed. An oil lamp shone from the desktop.

Amanda didn't even comment on the rough accommodations. She stopped at the edge of the mats, stepped out of her shoes, and let Duncan slide her tattered jacket from her shoulders. She had exchanged her bloody blouse for one of Richie's long-sleeved shirts, but beneath the shirt she still wore her filthy tights.

She turned to face Duncan with a wan smile. She wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head against his chest. "I should clean up," she sighed. "I smell like a fishwife."

Duncan embraced her joyfully, remembering how very close he had come to losing her. How very close he had come to losing everything. "I've always liked fishwives," he said tenderly.

Amanda leaned into him and began to shake with repressed sobs.

"Sleep," Duncan said. "You can shower in the morning." He lifted her carefully and lowered her to the makeshift bed as gently as if she were a small child. He folded a coat and an old blanket around Amanda and then curled beside her, her back to his chest.

He held her as she cried. The tears didn't last long but, despite her obvious exhaustion, she didn't drift off to sleep.

"Where did you leave him?" Duncan asked, when he realized that she would not let fatigue overtake her until his own fears were calmed.

"In his room," she said quietly.

"Alone?"

"Yes. Joe's downstairs."

Duncan hugged her close and kissed her behind one ear. "Thank you, my love," he said with heartfelt sincerity. "Thank you for taking care of him."

Amanda turned her face into the mat. "He needs you, Duncan," she whispered.

"I know," he said. "Sleep now."

Amanda sighed, and moments later Duncan felt her body relax against his. Her breathing slowed to the rhythm of deep sleep. Tired as he was, he remained awake, her guardian during the hours of darkness.

 

 

At first light Duncan rose and scribbled Amanda a brief love note. He selected one of his practice katanas as a replacement for Richie's sword, which was now buried beside Czeslaw. Then he pulled Anne's car keys from Amanda's jacket pocket and drove to the hardware store.

The morning was frosty, bright, and still. The aftershocks of the day before hadn't had much effect outside of Capitol Hill. Most of the city's main streets had been cleared, and in one neighborhood the traffic lights were even working—a promise of things to come.

Duncan parked near the store and approached cautiously. He didn't want a recurrence of Richie's previous attack on him. Agitated and without his sword, Richie might well panic at the approach of another immortal.

Joe Dawson limped slowly from the store and met Duncan on the sidewalk. "MacLeod," he said. "Glad you're here. I haven't seen Rich yet, but I could hear him. He's up and moving around."

Duncan clasped Joe's arm in a gesture of deep appreciation. "Thank you, Joseph," he said fondly. He paused and examined his weary friend. "I'm sorry for the way I've treated you lately."

Joe squinted at him and then shook his head. "You've had other things on your mind," he said. "But we need to talk. When you have a chance."

Duncan nodded. "All right." He touched Joe's shoulder. "Thank you."

Joe turned to leave—and then stopped. "Anne kept Willa and Angie away," he said. "I don't know what she told them. But my guess is you haven't got much time."

"Right," Duncan said. He entered the store and made his way up the back stairs, letting his buzz and his heavy tread announce his arrival. The door to Richie's room was open.

"Richie?" he called. There was no answer.

Duncan stepped inside. The sofabed was closed and a blue cotton blanket was rolled into a ball and scrunched beside the bookcase. The room smelled unmistakably of sex. Duncan walked to the window behind the desk and propped it open absentmindedly. Richie and Amanda's bloody clothes had been stuffed into the wastebasket. A wet towel hung across the back of the desk chair.

The room was too small to offer any hiding places. Duncan left and walked down the hall to the bathroom. Richie wasn't there, either. But he was obviously nearby.

Duncan tapped on the door of the room where Rajiv's body had lain. "Richie?" He opened the door.

Richie sat in one corner, his backpack beside him. A recent shower had washed away all traces of blood, dirt, and injury. Morning light streamed through the uncurtained window, burnishing the gold curls of his hair. Richie's always-pale skin seemed almost translucent and his eyes were bottomless blue pools. Duncan felt as if he could look right through those outer surfaces into Richie's soul. One word, he told himself. One wrong word, and Richie might disappear inside himself forever.

He moved into the room and withdrew the katana he had selected. He placed it beside Richie, who glanced down at it and nodded without ever meeting Duncan's eyes.

"Why are you in here?" Duncan asked.

Richie looked up. It seemed to take him a moment to focus on the question. "I was afraid Angie or Willa would come by," he explained. "But I knew you'd find me in here." He swallowed hard. "I need to borrow some money, Mac."

Duncan sat beside him. He touched Richie's arm. "Do you trust me?" he asked. "It's all right—you can answer truthfully."

Richie blinked. "Yes," he said simply.

Duncan breathed a silent prayer of gratitude. "Then don't leave. Not yet. Let me take care of you for a while. Chiefs and Indians, remember?"

Richie tried to smile. "I have to take care of myself now, Mac."

Duncan squeezed his shoulder. "You can do that, I know. But even adults have times when they need other people's help. This is one of those times, Rich. Trust me."

Richie turned his face to the wall. "Angie," he said brokenheartedly. "I don't know what she'll do."

"We'll find the best way to handle it," Duncan promised.

Richie shook his head in disbelief and closed his eyes.

"First you need some time to recover," Duncan said. Integrating Czeslaw's quickening might take days—Czeslaw was simply too old, and Richie was too young. "At least come home with me until you're over the worst of it. Please, Richie."

Richie opened his eyes and gazed bleakly at Duncan. "OK," he said finally. "We better get out of here."

Duncan stood and helped Richie up. Then he picked up the katana and again concealed it inside his coat. The two men walked downstairs and out the front door of the store. Joe was nowhere to be seen. Richie stashed his backpack in the trunk of Anne's car, and they drove back to MacLeod's building in virtual silence.

Richie paused at the stairs that led up to the dojo door, obviously reluctant to encounter Amanda.

"It's all right." Duncan patted Richie's back. "You'll see." He went ahead of Richie, climbing the stairs and treading lightly across the floor until it became obvious that Amanda was no longer asleep in the office.

He went back and stuck his head out the door. "She's gone out, Rich. Come in and sit down."

Richie shouldered his backpack and ventured into the empty dojo.

Duncan moved into the inner office to roll up the exercise mats. He raised his voice to reach Richie. "The elevator needs professional help. I'll get the exterior stairs stabilized in a day or two. In the meantime, I've rigged a rope ladder to the locker rooms. From that level, we can take the back stairs to the loft. At least we won't have any drop-in visitors."

Richie nodded and sat on one of the benches along the wall.

Duncan picked up a scrap of paper. "Let's get you settled upstairs and then see if we can find some breakfa—" he began. Then he read the note that Amanda had scrawled across the back of his love letter. Shocked, he leaned heavily against the desk.

Richie got up and shuffled into the office. "Mac?" he asked.

Duncan looked up. He passed a hand through his hair. "She's left, Rich," he said tremulously. "She's left me."

"Oh, no." Richie's face crumpled.

Duncan recovered quickly enough to pull out the desk chair and force Richie into it before his knees buckled. He could see Richie retreating into himself in just the way he had feared. "No, Rich!" he said. "This had nothing to do with you!"

"I'm sorry," Richie mumbled. "I didn't want to, but I couldn't, I couldn't..."

Duncan crouched in front of the chair. He gripped Richie's arms and shook him. "Richie! This has nothing to do with last night! Last night was an act of love."

Richie covered his face.

Duncan felt an unreasonable flash of anger—it was one thing for Amanda to abandon him, quite another for her to inflict this kind of pointless guilt on Richie when he had so much else to deal with. Had she even thought about that?

He searched for a way to explain something that he didn't really understand himself. "This is about Amanda and me. It has _nothing_ to do with you, Rich, I promise."

The desk phone jangled. Startled, Duncan cursed under his breath and rose to pick up the receiver. It was Anne. Her first inquiry was about Richie.

He cast a glance at Richie, who sat unmoving in his chair. "He's with me. He's not doing too well."

"He's in shock," Anne diagnosed. "I'd like to see him, Duncan."

"Medicine won't help. And it's best if he's not seen in public right now."

Anne was silent for a moment. "Why don't you and Amanda take Richie to my house?" she suggested. "You know how much space I have. I'm at the hospital right now, but I'd like to check on Richie later today and maybe drop Mary off, if you think you can handle a baby right now."

Duncan decided that the news of Amanda's unexpected departure could wait. "Thank you," he said. "That sounds like a good idea. But please don't tell anyone we're there."

"You'll have to talk to Angie, Duncan. I've asked her to wait until you or Richie could explain things to her, but she won't wait long. She's as worried about Richie as you are."

"I know." Duncan sighed. "But not today. Not this minute."

"Soon," Anne urged.

Duncan was silent.

It was Anne's turn to sigh. "All right," she said. "You have my keys. Go ahead and take my car out to the house. I assume it's still standing. I'll be home as soon as I can get away from this madhouse."

Duncan hung up the phone and grabbed Richie's backpack. "Stay with me, Rich," he urged. "We're going out to Anne's place for a while. OK? Rich?"

Richie dropped his hands from his face and sat up in the chair. He made an obvious effort to pull himself together. "Just drop me off," he suggested. "You can drop me off and go after Amanda."

"Not a chance." Duncan pulled at Richie's arm. "Come on. Up!"

With much prodding, he maneuvered Richie back into the car. The younger man flopped in the front seat, limp as a rag doll, and stared off into the distance as Duncan drove.

Since he had no words that could help, Duncan accepted Richie's withdrawal. In four hundred years, he had found no technique for easing the acquisition of another immortal's quickening. It took as long as it took; it hurt as much as it had to. All Richie could do was get through it. All Duncan could do was stay beside him.

Duncan's thoughts swung back to Amanda. Her note had been brief but clear—she was off to a new adventure and didn't want a traveling companion. Bunkum, of course. But why would she flee now? Richie's assumption—that some sort of sexual jealousy was at work—was patently absurd. Duncan had buried the green-eyed monster long ago, at least where Amanda was concerned. Both he and Amanda understood that Richie had been distraught and in need, and that Amanda had cared for him as no one else could. If anything, Duncan loved her even more for her generosity to Richie.

Duncan flashed back to those last desperate words before Amanda had taken up the battle against Czeslaw. Amanda had claimed then that she wanted to give their love a chance. So why had she changed her mind? Richie certainly had not been lucid the night before, which meant she couldn't know what had happened after that alley wall collapsed on her. Was she feeling guilty about James's death? Or regretting her role in Richie's unfortunate entanglement with Czeslaw? Both those things, probably. Did she think Duncan would blame her for those events? That was possible, he admitted to himself. He'd been humbled considerably by the experience of the dark quickening, but perhaps Amanda thought he was still too judgmental to forgive.

He pounded one fist against the steering wheel. Amanda should know better! He had spoken of his love. He had begged her to let him help. She knew, she had to know, how much he wanted her to stay.

He wiped at his eyes and inspected Richie, who still gazed blankly ahead, unaware of both Duncan's distress and the devastated city outside his window. Richie, too, was an enigma. During those late-night hours at the dojo, waiting for Amanda to leave Richie's bed, he had pondered why Richie had ever taken up swords with Czeslaw. Richie had feared and hated the man, that was clear. But why he had gone to the bar, and why he had been so hellbent on battle, Duncan couldn't guess. Czeslaw's bizarre suggestion—that Richie was seeking the pleasure of the kill—was so ludicrous that Duncan rejected it out of hand. True, a few immortals did take a perverse sexual pleasure in killing and absorbing the life energies of their victims. Richie wasn't one of them.

Besides, he knew instinctively that Czeslaw would never have willingly surrendered his quickening to such a predator. Now that the threat to Amanda and Richie had passed, Duncan could recognize in Czeslaw a kindred soul. The man had been a warrior who valued life and honor—fully prepared to defend or avenge the innocent, but repulsed by wanton violence.

The car lurched slowly up the broken asphalt drive that led to Anne's house. Duncan parked the car away from the house and garage in case of further aftershocks. Richie roused himself just long enough to enter the house, appropriate a bedroom, and shut the door.

Duncan sighed. Explanations would have to wait until Richie had had some time to recuperate. In the meantime, he occupied himself by inspecting the house. Some of the interior walls were cracked. Pictures, lamps, and knick-knacks crunched underfoot. He picked up Mary's room first so that the baby at least would have a safe place to stay. Then he moved on to the kitchen, where the cabinets had sprung open, flinging dishes, glassware, and canned goods onto the counters and the floor.

As he wiped the counters, the house hummed happily and then brightened with the welcome return of electric power. Duncan listened, hoping for some positive reaction from Richie. Nothing. He continued his work while allowing the water heater time to do its job. Then he indulged in a hot shower and a shave.

He turned up the thermostat on his way back to the kitchen. So far as he knew, Richie hadn't eaten since Czeslaw had first appeared at the hardware store, two days earlier. He must be famished. Duncan found an unbroken jar of jelly and some bread that was stale but not yet moldy. He popped the bread in the toaster and fixed a plate for Richie.

He tapped on the bedroom door before entering. Richie wasn't sleeping. He was hunched on the floor beside the bed like a small child. Duncan's concern notched up a little higher. He walked around the bed to where Richie sat, his back to the wall.

Richie lifted his head and gazed at Duncan with an expression that was so wretched, so world-weary that the Highlander stepped back in surprise. He amended his earlier assessment. Richie didn't look like a child at all—he looked like an ancient.

Duncan put the plate down on the nightstand and sat on the bed. "Can I help?" he asked quietly, knowing what the answer must be.

Richie shrugged and let his head drop back against the wall before replying. When he looked up again, he seemed more like himself. "I'm OK, Mac. It's not like it's the first time."

"But Chet was a lot older. Twice as old as Mako even, maybe more." Duncan rubbed a hand across his freshly shaved face. "It's bound to take a while, Rich."

"Yeah," Richie sighed.

Duncan reached out to touch his shoulder.

Richie jerked away, bumping his head against the wall. "Ow!" He rubbed his head and chuckled sheepishly at his own hypersensitivity. Duncan smiled in response, hoping ardently that Richie's reaction was not a personal one.

"So, Mac, are you gonna yell at me now or later?" Richie rubbed his head again.

Duncan pretended to consider the matter. "Later, I think. So you can get the full effect."

Richie smiled faintly.

"First you need to eat something. Then get some rest."

Richie shook his head. "No sleeping. Not till I know who's gonna wake up."

So that's what he's worried about, Duncan thought. Well, no wonder. To Richie, Czeslaw would seem a likely source for a dark quickening. "You don't have to worry about that," he said. "Chet's gone. You're in charge of what you think and feel, not him."

Two patches of red flamed in Richie's cheeks. "Right. That's why I'm getting it on in the middle of the street, with my girlfriend watching. 'Cause it's what _I_ wanted."

Duncan was taken aback. He doubted that Angie had cared about any aspect of the quickening except Richie's suffering. "Once a quickening starts, there's no stopping it, Rich. You couldn't help that. _Chet_ couldn't help that."

Richie snorted his disagreement. "He got what he wanted, all right. Had me both ways."

Duncan started. "What?" He remembered Richie sitting, bound and withdrawn, in the chair behind Czeslaw. He remembered the sick horror on Joe's face, and Richie's fury once he was finally released. Had _Czeslaw _been the sexual predator?

Richie looked away. "You know what I mean."

"Tell me," Duncan demanded. He had to know. He had to hear Richie say that what he was thinking wasn't true.

"Oh, for God's sake, Mac!"

Duncan tried to swallow his feelings. "Tell me what happened, Richie," he said, lowering his voice closer to gentleness.

Richie ran a hand through his hair. "After we fought...he had me pinned down on the floor. He was _enjoying_ it. He told me how I was like that James. How he was gonna use me to get you and Amanda." He paused. "Anyway, he slugged me, and I passed out, I guess. When I woke up, I was tasting the beer spills on the floor and he was on top of me, tying me up. I think he did it while I was out. Or maybe he was just saving my ass for after he got Amanda.

"But he was gonna do it," Richie said with absolute certainty. "I know he was."

"Oh, no." Duncan shook his head in denial. He moved off the bed and onto the floor, needing to be closer to Richie. "I think you would have known if he'd...raped...you, Richie." Damn, that word was hard to say. An obscenity would have been easier. "You would have known. You're OK. I think you're OK."

Richie shrugged. "Like I said, wouldn't be the first time."

"Oh, Richie!"

Richie looked surprised by Duncan's distress. Then he slowly turned a deep red. He pressed his face into his knees. "Shit, I _am_ out of it. I forgot you didn't know." His voice dropped. "Sometimes it seems like everybody does."

"Richie..." Duncan had no idea how to finish the sentence.

"I didn't lie to you, Mac. Honest. It wasn't Frank. It happened after that. I should have told you when I had the chance, I know, but I was kind of hoping you didn't know, you know, maybe it wasn't in the file, and I was afraid of what you'd think, and it's stupid to talk about anyway, it was a long time ago, who the hell cares, I—

"Richie, be quiet!"

Richie obeyed.

Duncan placed one trembling hand on each side of Richie's face. "You never have to be afraid of what I think of you. I might yell sometimes, but that'll be the worst of it, you understand? If someone hurt you, it won't be_you _I'll be yelling at." He stopped for breath. "But you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. You have a right to your privacy."

Richie pulled away. "Now you know why I've been acting like a crazy person," he said softly.

Duncan tried to think through the connections. "You thought Chet was like the man who hurt you." That would explain why Richie had been so agitated every time he encountered Czeslaw.

"He _was,_" Richie said.

Duncan wasn't sure if Richie was drawing that conclusion based on Czeslaw's homosexuality or something more. Czeslaw _had _commented on Richie's resemblance to James; it was at least possible he had been attracted by appearance alone. Duncan recalled his own attraction to Lisa Millon. But then, Lisa Millon had gone out of her way to tempt him. And seduction was not the same thing as rape. He couldn't believe Czeslaw was capable of that, especially considering the outcome of the fight with Richie.

"Richie," he said, "do you know what happened at the end? Chet dropped his sword. On purpose. He didn't want to kill you. He was in Seattle for Amanda—no one else."

Richie didn't seem to understand. "He just wanted to fuck me over, you mean? I'd rather he killed me, you know?" He shuddered. "Except then I'd be inside _him_. Now he's inside me." He blanched as he realized what he was saying. "Inside me," he gasped. He struggled to his feet and stumbled over Duncan as he dashed for the bathroom.

Duncan followed. He tried to hold Richie's head as he retched, but Richie shook off the contact even as dry heaves convulsed his body. After several minutes of awful choking and coughing, Richie was close to fainting. He lay down to rest on the cold tile floor. Duncan lifted him up and half-dragged, half-carried him back to the bedroom. He plunked Richie on the bed and crouched down to pull off his shoes.

"No more talk," he said. "You need sleep." He stood up to reach for a pillow and Richie jumped away, retreating again to the safe corner between the bed and the wall.

"No sleep!" Richie said obstinately. "No, Mac!"

Duncan decided not to force the issue. Sleep would come sooner or later, whether Richie welcomed it or not. Instead he picked up the plate of food. "At least eat something, then. This is genuine toast from a genuine toaster. The power's back. The heat is on. We've returned to the twentieth century."

Richie relaxed a bit. He picked up a piece of toast and examined it. "Grape jelly?" he asked with a tired but goofy smile.

Duncan shrugged, pleased by Richie's bemusement but worried by his abrupt mood swings. "What can I say? It's not my kitchen."

Richie took a bite of the toast and wiped at his mouth. "I'm OK, Mac," he said. "I just need to be alone for a while. All right?"

"All right," Duncan agreed. "Come out and talk when you feel like it."

Richie nodded, and Duncan left him sitting on the bed, munching on a piece of toast.

***

Duncan sat in Anne's spacious living room for most of the afternoon. The dutiful voice in his head listed all the things he ought to do: Call Willa and let her know that Richie was OK—without actually telling her what had happened. Call Joe to see if he needed help. Make contingency plans for changing Richie's identity. At least straighten up the rest of the house or scavenge something for dinner. Do something useful, he commanded himself. But he couldn't. His mind kept seeking an answer to a question that was pointless to begin with: Who?

Richie had told him the month before that foster father Frank Bianconi had "only" beaten him. Richie's background file, compiled by one of Joe's Watchers, had included no solid evidence of sexual abuse, although one of Richie's social workers had reported her concerns about that possibility. Why didn't I take that more seriously? Duncan wondered. Because I was so damn worried that I was the worst of the worst fathers in Richie's life?

Richie had said it happened "after Frank"—presumably meaning after Bianconi put Richie in the hospital when he was 10. Could Richie have had a second abusive foster father?

Or had he been assaulted when he was 16 or 17 and living on the streets? Duncan wondered why that thought had never crossed his mind before. After all, it was common knowledge that Seattle's street children frequently encountered men seeking sex. Some of those men didn't take no for an answer. Richie had said as much just the other day.

Or...oh, God. Perhaps something had happened later, in Portland—Richie had been troubled then, on the run from Duncan, using drugs and alcohol, alone and unarmed. At some point he must have been an easy target. Chalk up one more for the dark quickening, Duncan thought bitterly, all costs paid by the friends of Duncan MacLeod.

He sank deeper into the sofa, feeling nauseated by all the possibilities. But, he told himself, at least he knew now. He could help Richie. Once Richie got over Chet's quickening, they could deal with whatever had happened in the past. If Richie needed to leave Seattle to do that, Duncan would go with him. Richie was in no condition to take off by himself, and he had no idea how hard it would be to say good-bye forever to the only home he had ever known. He might fall back into the dangerous life he had been living the year before.

"Duncan?" Anne called from the entry hall.

He picked up his cold cup of tea and tried not to look as miserable as he felt. "In here," he responded.

Anne came into the room with Mary sleeping in her arms. "I'm sorry it took so long," she said. "Even with all the extra help from outside, the hospital is still chaos."

"How did you get home?" Duncan asked.

"A friend dropped me off."

"Then let me take care of the bairn," he offered, "and you can get some rest."

Anne shook her head. "No, I'll just put her down. I'd like to check on Richie."

Duncan stood. "He's in the back bedroom. But he might not feel like company. It's going to take a while for—"

Anne was in full professional mode. "I need to see Richie, Duncan, and that might be easier if you and Amanda could give us some privacy."

Duncan didn't object further. Richie didn't need a physician, but Anne wouldn't be convinced of that until she had seen him. "Amanda's not here," he said. "If you'll stay with Richie, I'll take the car and go check on Joe."

***

Joe's bar was closed that late Tuesday afternoon, and the owner was the only occupant. He unlocked the front door for Duncan.

"Mac," Joe said. "Didn't expect to see you again today."

Duncan looked down, alarmed to find Joe in his wheelchair. "Well, I expected to find you at home catching up on sleep. You weren't." He hesitated. "Are you all right, Joe?"

Joe turned the chair expertly and rolled toward a table in the back of the bar. His laptop computer occupied part of the tabletop, and papers covered the remaining surface. "You mean the chair? Yeah, I just had the damn prosthetics on for too long. Couldn't take it anymore."

He waved toward the bar. "Find a glass, if you can, and pour yourself a drink."

Most of the bottles and glassware that normally lined the shelves behind the bar were gone. Duncan selected two thick water glasses and a bottle of whiskey and joined Joe at the table. He raised an eyebrow, asking if Joe wanted a drink.

"Yeah," Joe said. "I'm half-drunk already, just from the fumes." The odor of alcohol pervaded the room.

"Who cleaned up in here? Not you, I hope."

"No, Mike came by and helped shovel the place out."

Duncan pulled a chair up to the table. "How is he?"

"Mike? He lost his house. But his family's OK."

Duncan apportioned the whiskey and then clinked his tumbler against Joe's. "That's what counts."

Joe nodded and took a swig of the liquor. He put his glass down. "How's Richie?"

"He's not himself," Duncan hedged. Richie would be justifiably upset if he revealed the substance of their recent conversation to Joe. On the other hand, Joe might be the one person who could tell Richie if Czeslaw had in fact assaulted him.

Duncan sipped his drink and then pushed back in the hard wooden chair. "I was hoping you could tell me more about what happened before I showed up at Draco's."

Joe eyed him sharply. "I've been trying to figure that out myself," he said. "I've got a partial answer, though I guess we'll never know the full story now that Czeslaw is dead."

"And?" he prompted.

Joe fingered his glass and sighed. "And it's a hellacious mess."

Duncan glowered at him, silently demanding details.

"I've been interviewing Watchers and researching the archives all day," Joe explained. "Here's what it comes down to. Czeslaw's Watcher has—had—been with him for twenty years. He got attached, MacLeod. He'd read the histories, knew all about what Amanda did to James, knew what that did to Czeslaw. He started tracking Amanda, using Watcher resources. He was listening in on his scanner when you talked to Amanda on my cell phone." Joe gulped his whiskey. "While you were taking the roundabout route to Draco's, trying not to be followed, Czeslaw's Watcher sent him straight toward Amanda."

"Czeslaw was using the Watchers to find Amanda?" Duncan found the notion repugnant, even though he'd employed the same tactic himself. He shook his head in self-disgust. "I should have figured that out. He knew too much about Amanda and me. Damn!"

Joe shrugged. "He could have found out about you while he was digging up info on Amanda. He'd been tracking her for decades on his own." Joe sighed. "If it's any comfort, Czeslaw's Watcher quit the organization before I could get him canned. He couldn't take it anymore. But first he gave me an earful about the great Czeslaw."

Duncan pulled his chair closer to the table. "I thought you respected the man."

"Yeah," Joe grumbled. "Thought he was a real hero because he only killed immortals who needed killing."

"Like Amanda."

"Right." Joe smirked and took another drink. "You know, MacLeod, I found out some things about myself this week, and I didn't like what I saw."

"You're a good man in a difficult situation, Joseph. I don't blame you for any of this."

Joe grimaced and shook his head. "Well, I do. I thought I'd learned my lesson about heroes and the glories of combat after my short tour of Vietnam. Turns out I just gave up being a hero for watching them in action. What a goddamned fool."

Duncan absorbed these words thoughtfully. "We're not heroes, Joe. We fight to survive. If we have any honor, it's in protecting the helpless."

"No," Joe disagreed. "Amanda was right. It's not about honor. Love, maybe, or hate. Anger, fear, the lust for power. Whatever. But not honor."

"If you take that illusion away, Joe, what do we have left?"

"Home, family, friends," Joe said vehemently. "The same as the rest of us. The same things I gave up to be a Watcher."

Duncan sat back in his chair, stung by Joe's words. He didn't point out that home and family were difficult to come by for most immortals. "Are you quitting, too, then?"

"Sorry," Joe said. "That didn't come out the way I meant it to." He scratched at his grizzled chin. "I'm not quitting—just getting out of field work. I'm getting old, Mac. I can't keep up physically, even when the ground isn't shaking." He ignored Duncan's incipient protest. "And I can't, at least I hope I can't, follow the rules anymore. God help me, I never want to stand by again and watch while somebody is terrorized." Joe emptied his glass and pounded it against the table. "What difference does it make if Richie's an immortal or not? He's my friend. He's put his life on the line for me."

Duncan leaned forward. "Joe," he consoled, "it's not up to you to protect immortals."

"The hell it's not!"

Duncan smiled at his friend's stubbornness and courage. "Well, I'm sure Richie wouldn't have wanted you to try." He hesitated. "What happened, Joe? How did Richie find out where Czeslaw was?"

Joe's eyes crinkled and he laughed quietly. "I had to call in some pretty big favors to get Amanda's Watcher to approach her about the phone call. Then, when Czeslaw suddenly showed up out of nowhere, her Watcher figured I was just using him to set Amanda up. I was in the church with Richie and Angie when the guy called to give me a piece of his mind."

"So naturally Richie had to get in on the action."

"Look, I'm sorry, Mac, I really did try to—"

"Forget it, Joe." Duncan reached for the bottle to fill Joe's tumbler. "I've never been able to stop Richie from going off half-cocked; there's no way you could. It's about the only thing Richie's done lately that I understand."

Joe snorted. "Kids learn from what you do, not what you say. If you want Richie to sit on the sidelines, you better start warming the bench yourself."

Duncan lifted his glass, acknowledging Joe's perspicacity. He took a long swallow of the whiskey. "What happened in the bar, Joe?"

Joe rolled back from the table and turned the wheelchair so that he faced Duncan directly. He spoke slowly. "By the time I got out of the car and close enough to see what was going on, Richie and Czeslaw were going at it fast and furious. Rich was holding his own until he got too close, and Czeslaw got him down on the floor."

Duncan forced himself to ask the next question. "What did Czeslaw do?"

Joe's eyes were haunted. "The kid was scared, Mac. I've never seen him so scared. Czeslaw knew it, too. He was stringing him along, threatening you and Amanda, playing on the resemblance between James and Richie." Joe paused. "Well, Richie put an end to that."

"Joe?" was all that Duncan could manage.

"I saw the same thing happen in 'Nam. Soldiers would take a village, figuring anything they see is theirs by right. Maybe they'd stick to military law, maybe not. Either way, parents would come out of their huts, offering anything they had for their children's lives. And sometimes the kids would try to do the same." Joe's head bent over his glass. "I've seen daughters volunteer their own bodies just to save their mothers from being raped."

Duncan swept his arm across the table, sending papers flying. "God, Joe," he begged, "say that isn't what happened!"

Joe gazed at him sympathetically. "I guess it's to his credit that Czeslaw was repulsed by the offer. Maybe he finally saw what he was doing."

"That _bastard._ That BASTARD!" Duncan was so irate that he didn't know what to do with his feelings. No profanity was adequate. He jumped from his chair and strode angrily around the bar, barely resisting the urge to pick up a table and throw it against the wall.

Only when he had regained a modicum of control did he return to hover over Joe's wheelchair. "But Czeslaw didn't...he didn't touch Richie?"

"If you mean _rape,_" Joe said grimly, "then, no. If he'd tried, I would have blown his head off."

Duncan collapsed into a chair. "Thank God," he said softly. Richie was OK this time. He'd taken a terrible chance, a chance he must never, ever take again, but he was OK.

He rested his elbows on the table and let his head fall into his hands. "Why, Joe?" he asked. "Why would Richie even think of suggesting such a thing?"

"Why? Because he loves you. What does honor matter, compared to that?"

Duncan rubbed away a tear. "How could he think that either Amanda or I would want that?"

"He thought he knew what Czeslaw wanted. He didn't care what _you _wanted."

"But..." Duncan shook his head in puzzlement. "I know Richie can be homophobic. But gay or straight, Czeslaw was an immortal. He wanted Amanda's _head. _Why would Richie think that...that any other body parts were involved?"

"Get me those, would you?" Joe motioned toward the scattered papers.

Duncan gathered them up and placed them in front of Joe.

Joe tapped on the top of the stack. "As long as there have been Watchers, there's been a debate about what a quickening is. If you can find an immortal to ask, he'll tell you it's a transfer of 'knowledge and power.' Trouble is, nobody can substantiate that. It looks like something a lot simpler and more brutal. There's a whole group of Watchers who think it's just a sex murder with special effects."

Duncan pushed away from the table and took a deep breath. Then he reached for his whiskey and drank deeply. "This wouldn't be the Hunters' theory, would it?"

"No. The Hunters were big believers in the Rules and the Game. They were sure immortals killed for power, not sex. They believed in a real Prize that gives the winner ultimate power over the whole world."

Joe flipped through the papers in front of him and eventually pulled out the top sheet of some sort of report. "Not too long ago, a Watcher did a formal comparison of immortals and mortal serial killers. He found that the most active headhunters have the same personality profiles as the guys on the FBI list. They grew up neglected or abused. They're intelligent loners, underemployed or unemployed. And they're sexual sadists."

"So there are abominations in both groups! What does that have to do with anything?"

"The world is full of people who think sex and violence go together. Quickenings make the connection seem natural. You may be appalled by the idea, Mac, but I doubt Richie is. He spent—what?—ten or more years in foster care, did time in juvenile detention, lived on the street for a year or more. Nobody comes out of that kind of life an innocent, Mac. He has to have at least witnessed some pretty scary stuff."

"You're saying Richie approaches sword fights like a sadist prowling for a victim to rape and kill?" Duncan asked dangerously. "That seemed to be _Czeslaw's _take on things: if an immortal hasn't gotten past his childhood abandonment, he'll never have anything to offer the world, so we might as well kill him and be done with it!"

"Cut the crap, MacLeod." Joe confronted Duncan's fury with his own. "You know that's not what I meant. I just think maybe that's how Richie saw Czeslaw, as some kind of a sex killer. Maybe that's how he sees what's waiting for him on the day when he loses his head. If Richie wasn't capable of loving anybody, he sure as hell wouldn't have put himself at Czeslaw's mercy."

"But Richie hasn't just seen quickenings, he's taken them. He couldn't really confuse them with sex. How could he?"

"Take away the emotions, and the physical reactions are similar." Joe took the bottle and poured Duncan another glass of whiskey. "You associate quickenings with death, and sex with love. Maybe Richie doesn't. I mean, the kid's never had a long-term relationship with anybody. He didn't grow up in a family. Who would you be today if I could wipe away all the things your family taught you about love, about people, about sex and relationships? You and I probably haven't got a clue what Richie _doesn't _know about those things."

That was probably right, Duncan mused. But how could Joe figure that out so easily? He didn't know anything about the childhood assault that Richie had just divulged. "How do you know so much about this?" he asked.

Joe refreshed his own drink. "Between you and me?" he suggested. "Richie would hate it if he knew."

Duncan nodded his acquiescence.

"When Richie took on Mako, he didn't have a full-time Watcher. So I stuck around after you left. First quickenings are important, and I...well, I wanted to get it on the record." Joe drank. "I'm not going to go into details, but it was bad. I don't think Richie knew what to expect. He didn't react too well. Not well at all. I was pretty relieved when he finally got cleaned up and made it over to your place."

"And I sent him away," Duncan said softly.

Both men stared silently into their drinks.

Duncan spoke first. "Then why did Czeslaw drop his sword? Why did he let Richie live?"

Joe sorted through his papers again. "Ah!" He handed Duncan a photocopy of a poem written in an elegant eighteenth-century hand. "Read this."

Duncan put down his glass and took the page. He pulled his chair closer to the table lamp and perused the stanzas, entitled "To an Imp." The subject was almost certainly Amanda. He read through the poem three times. "James Ogilvie wrote this? He was good. Very good. But what does it mean?"

"Well, if I could find the dedication to the poetry collection, I'd show it to you. It says 'To my second father, Cz.'"

"Father?" Duncan asked. He shivered. "But I thought they were lovers!"

Joe nodded. "The chronicle doesn't come right out and say so, but I'm pretty sure they were. Even so, you put a 2,000-year-old and a twenty-something together, and there's bound to be some paternal feelings. Especially since Ogilvie's father died when he was young, and his whole family depended on him to be the head of the household. Czeslaw was probably the only person James could turn to."

"Amanda took his son, and he gave me back mine."

Joe lifted his glass. "I couldn't have done it, Mac. Nobody who ever loved could have looked in your face and taken Richie's life."  
  
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	3. Chapter 3

  
  
  
  
  
  


_Protective Measures,_ part 3

 

Duncan made sure that Joe had food and a comfortable place to sleep before speeding back to Anne's house as fast as the road conditions allowed. He could assure Richie now that Czeslaw hadn't assaulted him, that all he had to get through was a quickening. Once that was behind them, they could deal with the past.

He parked near the house and sprinted up the porch steps, anxious to feel Richie's buzz. What if Richie had decided to take off? he worried suddenly. Anne wouldn't have been able to stop him.

He stepped into the foyer. "Anne?" he called softly, not wanting to wake Mary. "Richie?"

He felt another immortal's presence but otherwise received no answer. He flipped on the hall light and hurried to the back bedroom. There Richie lay atop the bedcovers, fully dressed and sound asleep.

Duncan closed the bedroom door with a smile. Sleep, as predicted, had won the battle. Down the hall, he checked on Mary, who nestled against the side of her crib, bathed in the warm glow of a nightlight.

Relieved, he returned to the dimly lit living room at the front of the house. He found Anne asleep on the sofa, nearly hidden beneath pillows and an afghan.

He sat in a nearby armchair and studied the doctor. Sleep added sweetness and vulnerability to the elfin intelligence of Anne's face. Duncan felt a rush of affection for her. For the first time since their breakup, he allowed himself to recall the powerful attraction they had once felt and the future they had planned together. In retrospect, Anne probably hadn't been the right partner for him. But, having seen her in action the past few days, Duncan had grown to admire her more than ever. Anne managed both motherhood and her profession with caring and competence.

He considered the vast differences between Anne and Amanda, wondering at his own ability to love them both. Anne had once offered the prospect of home, family, and long-term companionship. Had he been wrong to ask those same things of Amanda? For centuries, he had turned to Amanda only when he needed to play and to love and to pretend that the Game didn't exist. Maybe it had been unfair to ask more of her now simply because he was ready for more.

Duncan noticed a note propped beneath the table lamp at one end of the sofa. He rose to read it. The paper said "Duncan—wake me when you get in."

He considered ignoring Anne's request. Clearly, she needed and deserved sleep. On the other hand, she was a doctor, and her services might be needed. He touched her shoulder. "Anne," he said. "It's Duncan. Wake up."

"Oh." Anne sat up with the instant awareness of an on-call physician. She brushed a hand through her short, dark hair. "Duncan. You're back. What time is it?"

"About seven o'clock. Do you need to be somewhere?"

"No." Anne folded the afghan over the back of the sofa. "I just wanted to talk to you."

Duncan switched on a second lamp before seating himself near Anne's feet. "How is Richie? I checked on him, but he's asleep."

Anne nudged a pillow behind her back and pushed herself to a seat against the end of the sofa. "I gave him a mild tranquilizer."

Duncan's mouth opened and shut again. Richie would have been helpless if another immortal had shown up out of the blue.

"You weren't here," Anne explained, somewhat apologetically, "and Richie said drugs have the same effects on mortals and immortals. He was very distraught, Duncan. I thought medication was warranted. Is that a problem?"

"It should be all right," Duncan said slowly. He paused. "But Anne, Richie has to absorb a quickening. How can a tranquilizer help with that?"

Anne wrapped her arms around her knees and stared at him a moment before she spoke. "I know next to nothing about quickenings, Duncan. I do know that Richie has an elevated heartbeat and blood pressure, nausea, insomnia, and an extremely high level of anxiety."

He slouched into the sofa. "I'm sorry," he said. "I knew Richie was upset. I shouldn't have left."

"I asked you to leave," Anne pointed out. "I didn't think Richie would talk to me if you were here, and I needed him to talk. It was the only way I could help him or you."

"Me?"

Anne nodded. "I'm a doctor. I can't talk to you about Richie without his permission."

Duncan had never expected that Richie would confide in Anne, and he certainly hadn't expected that Anne would treat Richie as if he were physically ill. "And did Richie give you his permission?" he asked with some trepidation.

"On a limited basis, yes." Anne leaned forward and took Duncan's hand in hers. He would have enjoyed the contact if it hadn't been such a forbidding omen.

"Richie came to me a couple weeks ago with a problem," she explained. "He asked if I'd be his physician, and I agreed. When I pulled his records from the hospital basement, I found some disturbing entries."

"You've seen those records?"

"Yes." She squeezed his hand. "Duncan, Richie says that he told you today that he'd been sexually assaulted as a child. Is that true?"

"Yes. No." His confusion was rapidly mutating into distress. "He told me that he'd been assaulted. He didn't say how or when."

Anne nodded thoughtfully. "Richie has agreed that I can summarize what happened to him as a child. Beyond that, I've assured him that you and I will only talk about what's happened recently and what Richie might need from us right now. Do you understand?"

Duncan nodded. "Confidentiality," he said. "You won't violate Richie's trust."

"That's right. But please don't be hurt. It's just that it's a lot harder to say some things out loud, especially to someone who is so close to you."

He steeled himself. "Tell me."

"I found evidence of physical abuse between the ages of 9 and 10. There was a spiral fracture of the ulna, followed by the battering that you told me about earlier. That episode was reported to the police. Then, about two years later, Richie was treated in the ER for sexual assault. He apparently came in alone."

"Assault..." Duncan held his breath. "Was he raped?"

"Yes," Anne said gently. "There's no doubt about the sodomy. The attending physician collected a semen sample. And Richie indicated to me that he'd been raped repeatedly over a period of about three months."

"Oh, my God," Duncan whispered. He dropped Anne's hand. He'd clung to the hope that somehow Richie had been wrong, that the assault hadn't included rape. But he'd been raped _repeatedly. _Duncan couldn't cope with that. He simply could not. How could anyone do such a thing to a child? To _his child?_

He ground his fists into his eyes, desperate to erase the image of a 12-year-old Richie in a hospital emergency room. Alone. His efforts only summoned up far more nightmarish scenarios. He finally spoke just to stop the visual assault. "How badly was he injured?" he asked shakily. "How did he get there?"

Anne shook her head. "I can't talk about that." She changed the subject. "I don't know why, but it appears that the police weren't called. That probably explains why the Watchers didn't find out about the incident. Hospital records weren't fully computerized until 1989. Richie says he told the attending physician that he was a street kid, although of course he was in foster care at the time."

"Who?" Duncan asked. He didn't mean the doctor.

"I don't know," Anne said, understanding the question perfectly. "The records don't indicate anything about the perpetrator, and Richie hasn't told me. He's volunteered very little. Most of what I know, I found in the files."

"His foster father," Duncan said icily. "If it was more than once, it had to be."

Anne reached out to touch his hand. "Don't jump to any conclusions, Duncan. Kids in Richie's situation have complicated lives. They can be exposed to dangerous situations inside and outside the foster home. You'll have to let Richie tell you who hurt him. If he can."

"I don't need Richie to find out his name." He didn't even need Joe. Richie's photo album would be easy enough to find in his room. Beneath every picture was a name and a date. If that didn't work, he knew which neighborhood to investigate.

Anne drew away from him. "And do what?" she challenged. "Kill him?"

"Not at first." Duncan flexed his fingers. By God, that bastard would suffer every torture ever invented by man.

"No, Duncan," Anne said firmly. "I'm sure Richie would enjoy the fantasy of vengeance, but the reality of another violent death would be a different matter. If Richie decides to prosecute the man, fine. But first let's get Richie to a state where he's able to make that decision. The childhood abuse is not the only thing we have to worry about right now."

Duncan sat back, deflated. "What do you mean?" He faltered. "I mean—I don't know what else to ask. Please just tell me."

Anne reached for his hand again. "Duncan," she said, "Richie was raped yesterday, before you arrived at the bar."

"No!" He jumped off the sofa. "No, that didn't happen!" He strode halfway across the room before turning back to face the doctor. "Anne, I know Richie _thinks _that might have happened, but it didn't. It was more complicated than that." He rubbed at his aching neck before trying to explain. "Czeslaw threatened Richie, yes. But Joe was there. I just asked him. There was no rape. Richie may have expected it, he may have thought that's what gay men do, but he was wrong. He was scared, Anne. He didn't know what he was doing."

Anne's brow wrinkled. "What do you mean, _Richie _didn't know what he was doing?"

Duncan shook his head. He could hardly admit to himself what Richie had done; he wasn't about to tell anyone else. "It doesn't matter now."

"Yes, it matters, Duncan. Richie is my patient. I need to know how he reacted to a recurrence of the trauma. I'm not asking out of curiosity. And I won't discuss it with anyone except Richie."

Duncan sighed. He hated to say the words aloud. But, God knows, he could use Anne's help. And Richie's health had to come before his dignity.

He returned to the sofa and sat down. "Richie fought Czeslaw and lost," he said. "Czeslaw had him pinned down on the floor and Richie..." Suddenly cold, Duncan rubbed at his arms. "I don't know what he said, exactly. He offered to...to perform a sex act with Czeslaw."

"Oh." Anne's professional composure wavered for a moment. "Poor Richie," she said quietly. "He must have been so frightened."

Duncan clasped his hands and focused on them. "I know. But if he was frightened of Czeslaw, why would he do such a thing? Even if he was trying to help...I want to understand it, Anne, but I don't. It sickens me. I thought Richie knew that...that some things are worse than death." He looked up, expecting to face Anne's recriminations, but he saw only compassion in her eyes.

"It's good that you know how you feel, Duncan," she said, "because you can be sure that Richie will know." She sighed. "And it is revolting, Duncan. It's horrifying that Richie learned somewhere to use his body as a bargaining chip. You just have to remember that his values aren't the same as yours. That doesn't mean he doesn't have any."

Duncan nodded numbly.

"Do you know what happened after that?" Anne asked.

He turned gladly to later events. "Czeslaw knocked Richie out and tied him up. That's why Richie's confused, Anne. He just doesn't remember. He was unconscious."

"There might be more to it than that," she murmured. "But tell me what Richie did after you arrived."

"He could hardly look at me. He kept saying that he wanted to fight Czeslaw again. Then Amanda showed up and she took on Czeslaw. When the quake hit, half of the wall dropped on Amanda, and Richie and I both ran into the alley to pull her out." Duncan took a deep breath. "Czeslaw didn't want to allow that, of course, and I was so busy trying to save Amanda, I didn't react in time. Before I knew it, Richie and Czeslaw were fighting." He leaned back into the sofa cushions and closed his eyes briefly. "I begged them to stop, but Richie was...I don't know how to explain it. It's like he wasn't even seeing me, he wasn't even in the same world I was. And Czeslaw wouldn't spare Richie unless I abandoned Amanda."

He bowed his head. "I couldn't do it, Anne. I chose Amanda. I left Richie in there with Czeslaw."

Anne left her corner of the sofa to sit beside him. "Richie's alive, Duncan. So is Amanda. You made a good choice."

"I don't even know why I made it," Duncan said hollowly. "Richie must think I didn't care—and after he sacrificed his honor to try and save us! But Amanda was completely helpless. I couldn't let Czeslaw just slice her up."

"That's understandable, Duncan. And something good came out of it, didn't it? Richie knows that he's not helpless. He won the battle."

Duncan pulled Anne closer and let his chin rest on the top of her head. "No. He didn't win. Czeslaw dropped his sword and let Richie kill him. He told me that if he couldn't get his justice from Amanda, he at least wanted his death to have some meaning." He sighed heavily. "I don't know what he meant by that. I'm just grateful he didn't kill Richie."

Anne hesitated. "That's when Richie ran from the alley, trying to escape Czeslaw's quickening?"

Duncan remembered the terrified child who had dropped his sword and turned to him, pleading for help. "He asked me to make it stop," he choked. "I couldn't even do that."

Anne kissed the back of Duncan's hand. They sat together quietly for a moment before she pulled out of his arms and drew her feet up onto the sofa cushions. "Duncan, I'm a surgeon who likes to stitch people up and send them home. I'm the last person who should be playing psychiatrist."

He smiled to encourage her. "Richie chose you. That's good enough for me."

"OK," Anne said reluctantly. She paused to gather her thoughts. "I've been reading up on the subject of abuse recently. From what I've observed, what I've seen in Richie's records, and the story you've just told me, I think it's pretty clear that Richie is suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. He may have been experiencing some symptoms for years, and what happened yesterday has brought them on full force. We can expect his symptoms to be severe."

Something in Anne's voice alerted Duncan. "Why? Why should they be severe?"

"The particulars of Richie's assault. The level of trauma correlates to the extent of physical injury or violation, the age of the patient at the time of the incident, and the duration of the incident." Anne ticked off the factors on her fingers. "And symptoms tend to be more severe if the patient was trapped or bound, or forced to witness or actively participate in violence." She paused. "You can see why I'm concerned."

Duncan wasn't sure if Anne was summarizing the nature of the childhood assault, the horrors of the previous day, or both. Maybe it didn't matter. He cleared his throat. "What are the symptoms?"

"I've already mentioned the physical ones—the hyperarousal and sleep disorders. The emotional symptoms can vary widely. The 'intrusive' symptoms are the most obvious, and tend to be most pronounced immediately after the trauma. They include things like persistent nightmares, or vivid and intrusive memories of the traumatic event. The 'constrictive' symptoms include things like social withdrawal, emotional detachment, and hopelessness about the future. Frequently, patients talk about the meaninglessness of their lives and how they expect to die young."

Anne's clinical attitude was disturbing. "That doesn't sound like Richie," Duncan countered. "Yes, he has nightmares. But he's certainly not antisocial or emotionally detached."

"When he did tell me a little bit about the original assault, Duncan, his attitude was detached. Over time, Richie may have learned to ignore his painful memories, or tried to numb the pain with drugs and alcohol."

Duncan was alarmed. "He tried that last year, after the dark quickening. He's not still doing drugs, is he?"

"I don't know," Anne said. "It has been a coping method in the past, and I'm concerned that it might appeal to him again."

"I'll put an end to that," Duncan pledged. He wasn't so naive as to think that doing so would be easy, but Richie was not any more stubborn than he.

Anne patted his hand. "We can talk about effective ways to combat addictions later. First, let's talk about yesterday. Some of the behaviors you described can be explained as traumatic reactions. Richie's 'distance,' for example, may have been an indication of dissociation. It's something people do when they're trapped in a very frightening situation that they can't escape and they can't effectively resist. They stop fighting and withdraw, emotionally, from their own bodies. It's a way of coping with the rage and terror of being utterly helpless while someone else is hurting you. If Richie was bound, and he expected to be raped, dissociation would be a natural response. Especially if he learned to dissociate as a child."

"Ah." Duncan sighed. "But why put himself in that situation in the first place? Why didn't he just stay away from Czeslaw?"

Anne shrugged. "You're getting into areas that are way too complicated for my limited knowledge, Duncan. I know I've read studies indicating that a certain percentage of trauma victims become risk-takers. Some therapists think that those patients continually put themselves in dangerous situations because they're trying to re-enact the trauma, trying to regain control over their lives. They may want to correct what they believe were their own mistakes during their initial victimization. That may have something to do with why Richie was so eager to fight Czeslaw, or why he tends to be reckless in general."

Duncan could hardly deny Richie's devil-may-care attitude toward danger.

"Or maybe that's not why he went to the bar at all," Anne conceded. "It sounds like there was a lot going on there, Duncan. Maybe the fight itself evoked a flashback, a memory so vivid that Richie reacted to Czeslaw as he would have to a reappearance of his abuser. Richie might have known, intellectually, that Czeslaw was a different person. But his own emotions might have been out of his control."

Duncan rose from the sofa and walked across the room to stare out the picture window, seeing nothing but the blackness of night and his own reflection. He reached over and closed the drapes before seating himself in the chair across from Anne. "I admit, Richie wasn't himself yesterday," he said. "But he went to that bar, and he did what he did, because he wanted to help Amanda and me. Richie's not some collection of symptoms to me, Anne. He wasn't unconsciously trying to get himself killed. I can't believe that."

"No, not to get himself killed—to prove himself. Maybe." Anne got up, stretched, and walked over to stand beside Duncan's chair. "And even if that theory is right, there are probably a lot of other reasons why he went, too. He did try to avoid Czeslaw when other people's lives weren't at stake, didn't he?"

Duncan nodded. Richie had just wanted to stay in his own neighborhood with Angie and Willa. He had refused from the start to be involved in any search for Czeslaw.

Anne touched his cheek. "I can't be sure why Richie did what he did, Duncan, and neither can you. Richie will have to work these things out for himself."

Duncan leaned forward in the chair. "What can I do?"

Anne seemed happy to focus on therapeutic measures. She returned to the sofa and curled her feet up under her. "Help Richie understand what happened to him. Right now he only sees things from his abuser's perspective, the one that tells him that he's crazy, and worthless, and beyond all human feelings."

Duncan sighed. "Richie's an adult, Anne. An adult male. He'll never talk to me about anything so personal. And why should he? I nearly killed him myself."

The doctor frowned. "He's already told you a great deal, Duncan. You have Richie's trust. Now you have to trust in your own abilities. Helping Richie through this is going to ask a lot of you."

"Maybe I've been a fool, thinking I could have a family. There's a reason why immortals can't live together. Amanda must have seen that." Duncan lifted his head and looked over at Anne. "She left me; did I tell you?"

Anne shook her head, her eyes sympathetic.

"Staying close to Richie has done nothing but cause him harm. Sooner or later, it's going to get him killed."

"And staying away will help?" Anne huffed. "I thought you knew better than that by now!"

"He was doing fine when I came back to Seattle. He was off the drugs, in school, working. Maybe it would have been better to let him hate me from a distance." He overrode Anne's protest. "Anne, I've wanted to be a father all my life, but I never really expected to have a son. So I never thought I'd find out that I'm not fit for the job. But that may be the truth. For all immortals."

"Duncan," she chided, "you haven't slept in days, you've nearly lost two people you love, and you've just heard some harrowing news. Of course the challenge seems overwhelming. You're learning to be a parent with a full-grown son who's going through a real crisis. It would be difficult for anyone."

"It's not that I don't want to try. I love Richie." Duncan blinked away tears of exhaustion and despair. "But do you know what he said when I told him that? He said that's what he was afraid of!"

"I'm sure he is, Duncan," Anne said. "Not afraid of your sword but your _love. _Because it might be fake—the sort of perversion of feelings he was subjected to as a child. And because it might be real—and you'll get too close and see him for what he really is. Then you might go away again." She paused. "Almost all assault victims have those feelings, Duncan. They desperately need to be loved and cared for, and at the same time they're terrified of being that close to anyone else."

"I don't want to get Richie killed," Duncan said softly. "But I don't want to leave, either."

"Good," Anne said, before he could qualify the statement further. "Because Richie's not the only person in this town who likes having you around." She smiled. "And because Richie has to talk to someone who cares about him, someone who knows what it's like to be an immortal."

"Sean could have done it. Or Darius." If only Darius were still alive, Duncan wished hopelessly. If only I could fly to Paris, and sit in his chambers, and talk to him about Richie and me. "But I'm nothing like them."

"If Richie wants to talk, just listen and tell him truthfully how you feel. And when he doesn't want to talk, just try to show him how healthy people relate to each other. Teach him who to trust. And tell him whatever you can about being an immortal. What it means, how you deal with it, how you explain it to other people." Anne leaned forward. "He knows so little about himself, Duncan. He doesn't even know how his own body works, how it heals, what a quickening is. And if you don't tell him, he won't ask."

"I guess I just assumed that he'd picked up all that from watching me, from talking to Joe, and Amanda, and other immortals."

"Where sex and relationships are concerned, Duncan, you can only assume that Richie has a lot to _unlearn_."

Perplexed, Duncan shook his head. "But that's just it. Quickenings and immortality—they have nothing to do with sex."

Anne spoke slowly. "I saw that quickening you took in Paris, Duncan. It scared me. I don't know how Richie could see or endure something like that without thinking of rape. And even without a quickening, a beheading would have a traumatic effect on anyone, much less someone who has already been traumatized."

"He's taken other quickenings and been fine," Duncan protested. Richie had walked away from Kristov with no problems, hadn't he? And that was after Mako. "Yesterday was different. Richie thought Czeslaw's attack was sexual because Czeslaw was gay."

"I'm not sure Czeslaw is the only reason why Richie's having problems now." Anne pursed her lips. "Unfortunately, victims of child abuse often have crises in their twenties or thirties. And it's likely that your attack on him last year had some impact, too."

Duncan turned his face away, a bitter taste in his mouth. "Do you think I don't know that?"

"I don't just mean the threat to his life, Duncan. Richie saw the man he admires most in the world taken over by someone else's quickening and forced to do awful things. If you couldn't save yourself from that sort of violent exploitation, what can Richie expect?"

"Oh." He needed to think about that.

"Don't you see, Duncan? Because he's an immortal, Richie has to relive his childhood trauma over and over again—not in dreams or fantasies, but in reality. And everything about being immortal aggravates the post-traumatic symptoms. The need for constant vigilance. The inability to trust anyone, mortal or immortal. The sense of being isolated from humanity. The apparent pointlessness of life and the Game. The forced participation in violence. And, most of all, the complete lack of control over his own fate, his own body, his own thoughts."

Duncan was fast sinking into despair, but Anne, never one to overlook the ugly truth, went on. "Richie _was_raped yesterday, Duncan. He couldn't stop an invasion of his own mind. He couldn't say no to the physiological reaction of his own body. Whether he lived or died, he was trapped. He _is _trapped."

Duncan felt as if that brick wall had crashed down on him. For the first time, he understood what it meant for Richie to face a lifetime of endless battles, each one ending either in violation or death. "Don't tell me it's hopeless. We're immortals. Like it or not, we have to deal with that."

Anne's voice softened into a plea. "No one should have to endure the sort of lives that you and Richie do, Duncan. And I don't believe Richie _can _endure it much longer without self-destructing. He's never recovered from the childhood abuse, and now he must finally deal with it. That's going to take every resource he has. He can't go on in the face of continual violent, life-threatening, sexual attacks. No one could."

She left the sofa and knelt by Duncan's chair. She touched his face. "You don't see it, but you're a trauma victim too, Duncan. You've seen so many battles. You've had to separate yourself from so much of life. Don't you see that immortality has diminished your life almost as much as it's lengthened it?"

"You think I don't see that?" He choked down a laugh. "When I'm here in the house I built for you, the woman I loved and lost because of what I am? When I see your child sleeping safe in her crib, while mine is living a nightmare? When I watch you practice a profession you love, serving a community that needs you, while I have to fight alone for the lives of my family? You think I don't feel _diminished?_"

"Then I just don't understand!" Anne burst out in frustration. "Why do you care about the 'Rules' of immortality? From what you've told me, they have no moral or ethical content. You don't even know who issued them, or how binding they are. You don't know where you came from, who you are, or what you're fighting for. Why don't you say no? You're like a soldier who keeps on fighting long after he's lost faith in his cause." Her voice dropped. "Like the women I sew up and send back to the men who will eventually cripple or murder them."

Duncan clenched his fists. Could Anne really not see the dilemma that he and Richie faced? "I can't negate the Rules, no matter how I feel about them, unless I can change the mind of every other immortal out there. Until then, I have to be prepared to fight. Or die." He rose abruptly from his chair. "And, like Czeslaw, I'm beginning to think that dying might be the better option. The Gathering will be here soon, and then none of us will have a choice."

"Well, I remember learning about Armageddon in Sunday school," Anne argued, "but I haven't put my life on hold or given up on the people who matter to me. You can have a life and a family, Duncan. And you can help Richie find one. If you're both going to die soon anyway, isn't it more important to teach Richie how to live than how to fight?"

Duncan had confronted such naivete on many occasions, and he had no doubt about his priorities. "It's because I want Richie to live that I teach him how to fight. That's what I have to do. I can't stop the Game, Anne. Others who were far better equipped for that role have failed—Darius, Brother Paul. You remember what happened to them."

"But they were inspirations and sources of comfort for you, Duncan. Richie needs hope, too. Some sense that his fate isn't preordained." Anne's face softened. "Sometimes we'll do things for the people we love that we'd never do for ourselves."

Duncan was stung by her implication. If he thought for a moment that breaking the Rules could buy time for Richie, he'd seize the opportunity. But such foolhardiness would only speed Richie's demise. "I'll take Richie to holy ground," he concluded. "It's probably best, anyway. Angie or someone else who saw too much might decide to talk about it."

"No, don't," Anne protested. "Studies show that kids who have active, sociable personalities are more resistant to trauma. That's Richie's strength, Duncan. Don't deny it to him. As much as you love him, you're only one person. Richie needs Angie, and Willa, and school, and work."

"Arrgh." Frustrated, Duncan growled and clutched at his hair. "I can't keep him safe _and _keep him here. You tell me, which is more important?"

"I don't know. I'd like to give Richie _everything _he needs." Anne shrugged helplessly. "You've had important relationships in your life, Duncan, and you've also spent time isolated from the world. At least you can help Richie make an informed decision about how he deals with the dangers of immortality. You can give him that much control over his fate."

"It's damn little to offer." As always.

"I dread the day I have to let Mary make choices like that," Anne confessed. "But remember, in the past Richie has always had to make those choices alone. Now he has you. That has to make a difference."

"I hope so," Duncan sighed. "And I hope to God it's for the better."

***

Richie rolled onto his side. God, it was nice to sleep in a real bed again. He dozed to the comforting sound of warm air whooshing through the register. What had he been dreaming about? he wondered fuzzily. He traced the lingering figment of a dream. Angie, her dark hair silken in his fingers, her cool hands soothing away his frantic anxiety. Angie suckling him at her breast, both mother and lover. His body stirred in response. Angie seeking solace in his body, weeping over the impending loss of her own love...

"Oh,_ shit!_" Richie bolted upright, his heart pounding. Not Angie, not a dream._ Amanda. _"Oh, God," he moaned. He shook his head, feeling disoriented. The fight, the quickening, the night with Amanda—had those things really happened? Shame crushed his ribs against his heart as relentlessly as Chet's 250-pound frame had done. "Oh, God," he moaned again. Chet. It _was _real.

"Richie?" Duncan opened the bedroom door.

Startled, Richie immediately flopped face down onto the bed. "Yeah?" he mumbled into the pillow, glad the Highlander couldn't hear his heart racing a mile a minute.

"How are you feeling?"

He gripped his fingers in the bedspread. "STOO-pid!" he said irritably, hoping Mac would have sense enough to go away and let him figure out what was going on.

He heard Duncan chuckle.

"Well, then, I guess it's time to get up," Duncan said. "Hit the shower and come have breakfast. It's almost eleven o'clock." He closed the door.

Richie clutched the pillow and thought about escape. Escape from where? he asked himself. He lifted his head and examined the room. Oh, yeah, he thought dismally. Anne's house. He'd been on his way out of town, but Mac had wanted to go to Anne's house. Great. Now what? If he tried to head out on his own, Mac would feel him leave and track him down like a big game hunter.

He sighed and got up, surprised by the wooziness that accompanied the action. He found his backpack stashed at the foot of the bed, partially hiding one of Mac's practice katanas. He puzzled briefly over the sword before rooting through the dirty clothes in the backpack. No shaving kit, damn little cash in his wallet, and, most disappointing of all, no cigarettes. A hell of a way to start a new life.

Richie gave up hope of either a quick escape or a quick smoke and made his way to the bathroom. He stripped out of his dirty clothes, stepped into the shower, and let the blissfully hot water pound over his shoulders, wondering why he still felt so strange. Chet's voice had faded to a whisper in the back of his mind, but still he couldn't seem to get a grip on his own memories.

He closed his eyes and turned his face to the water. The last thing he remembered clearly was the funeral. He'd been trying to talk to Angie after the funeral, and then Joe had walked in on them, and...

"Oh!" he sputtered, that first fight in the bar coming back to him as clear as day. He'd made a beginner's mistake, and Chet had taken full advantage of it. Richie flopped back against the tiles and sank to the floor, the shower water still running. He'd lost the fight; all he could do was buy time for Mac and Amanda. Then he hadn't even been able to take it like a man.

When he regained consciousness, Chet had already finished the job but was still astride him. Richie had broken down and cried like a baby. Just like he had cried in the street, in a public street, for God's sake, after putting on a show for practically everyone he knew in the world. Who all got a good chance to see exactly how much he'd enjoyed Chet's quickening. Even Angie. Richie shuddered. Thank God Mac had gotten Angie out of there before he'd had a chance to hurt her again. He wasn't proud of what he'd done with Amanda afterward, but at least Amanda knew what she was in for, and didn't leave his bed with any bruises.

His chest hurt from the effort of holding in the sobs. Knowing he couldn't restrain them much longer, Richie stood up and let himself go. He gripped the old-fashioned water taps for support as he wept into the forceful spray of hot water, praying Mac wouldn't hear him. What a worthless little shit he was. He'd broken down like this before, hadn't he? His still-fuzzy brain searched for the recent memory. Last night. He'd completely lost it just last night, lost it so badly that Anne had given him drugs to calm him down.

Oh, fuck, Richie thought hopelessly, remembering why he'd been so upset. He'd told Anne and Mac about the rape, the first rape. Why the hell had he done that? God, _why? _Now he had to face Anne and Mac over the breakfast table. Except he didn't think he could. He had to get out of town, and now.

Duncan opened the bathroom door a crack. "Rich? You OK in there?"

Richie nearly jumped out of his skin. "I'll be out in a minute!" he squeaked.

Mac closed the door immediately, but Richie had to let the water run for a few more minutes before he got his breathing under control. Finally he left the shower and sat on the toilet lid, drying off. He blew his nose as quietly as he could, trying to figure out a plan. He'd tell Mac he was going to pick up some things at the store before they left town. Then he could take off on his own. Maybe not a great plan, but his brain couldn't come up with anything better this morning.

Richie dressed hurriedly in the same clothes he had slept in the night before. He slipped out of the bathroom and headed to the bedroom to grab his backpack.

Duncan was standing at the other end of the hallway, waiting for him. "Pancakes are getting cold," he said. "Come eat."

"Not hungry," Richie said over his shoulder. "I just want to head into town and—"

"Richie!" Duncan demanded.

Richie sighed and turned partially around. Don't look at me, he willed. God, Mac, please don't look at me. Don't make me look at you.

"Relax," Duncan said mildly. "It's just breakfast. No yelling, no questions—I promise. Just sit down with me and eat."

The kindness in Mac's voice made Richie's eyes water. Oh, right, he told himself sarcastically. This is a good time to start that again. He gave himself a mental kick. Obviously, Mac wasn't going to let him walk out the door right now no matter how much he wanted to make a run for it. He'd just have to put on a happy face.

He turned and trudged toward the kitchen. Duncan went ahead, making a fuss over pouring coffee and serving up plates full of pancakes and syrup.

Richie sat and stared at the plate in front of him. His empty stomach rumbled even as his throat constricted at the very thought of food. _I hate this goddamned body, _he thought ferociously, surprised by the vehemence of his own reaction. He ought to be used to his body betraying him by now.

"Eat," Duncan urged.

He took a sip of coffee. The strong, bitter liquid tasted good, tasted right. "Where's Anne?" he asked cautiously.

"She and Mary went to the hospital. Joe's going to pick us up in a few minutes and drive us back to where I left the T-Bird."

"Oh." Richie focused on his coffee cup. He gulped the hot liquid, not caring that it burned all the way down his throat. "Then what?"

"Then we have a car," Duncan said reasonably. "We can stay in town, we can go out to the cabin, we can go somewhere else. Whatever you want."

Richie dropped the cup into the saucer. "I'm sure as hell not staying here!"

Duncan blinked. "I thought you might want to try explaining things to Angie."

"God!" Angie was the last, the very last, person Richie ever wanted to see. He pushed away from the table and stood up. "I told you before, we're breaking up! So it's pretty dumb to put her in the middle of all this crap, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

Richie sat down again before the trembling in his chest could reach his knees. "Look," he said, "she's a great kid, but she's not for me. She's gonna marry somebody normal and have kids, settle down, go to work every day. Not my thing."

Duncan hesitated, then took another tack. "And what about your job, and school, and all your friends here? If we leave for any length of time, Rich, it may be impossible to come back without raising suspicions. If we stay here, you'd at least have a few more years before you had to move on."

"It's already time to move on," Richie said impatiently. "I don't give a damn about school. And, let's face it, Angie and my friends will be better off without me."

"Rich, you don't—"

"Come off it, Mac! You know what I mean. I'm just trying to do the right thing. Angie saw too much. It's just good sense to leave now. Get with the program here, would you?"

Richie paused, feeling guilty about his own underhandedness. "I just want to say good-bye to Willa before we leave." That wasn't just an excuse to get away from Mac, he realized as he said the words. Willa was the one person he cared about who hadn't watched him make an ass of himself. He could allow himself the luxury of thanking her for all the things she'd done for him.

Duncan accepted his decision. "OK," he said. "That might be best. After we get the car, we can drop by the dojo and the store." He cleared his throat. "Then I'd like to go out to the island for a while. Once we're on holy ground, we can talk."

Richie's flesh crawled at the way Duncan said that last sentence. No way, he promised himself. After today, he was not going to be anywhere near anyone who wanted to 'talk.' "Fine," he said.

Duncan peered at him suspiciously, then sighed. "If you're not going to eat, Rich, at least put some sugar in that coffee." He got up and refilled Richie's cup.

The picture of cooperation, Richie ladled several teaspoons of sugar into the coffee. He and Duncan sat at the table, hardly speaking, until Joe rang the doorbell about ten minutes later.

Richie grabbed his backpack and the katana and piled into the back seat of Joe's car. He barely acknowledged the Watcher—reasoning that if he didn't look at Joe, he couldn't see what Joe was thinking. At least the guy had witnessed quickenings before.

I'll be outta here soon, Richie told himself. Soon, soon, soon. Except Joe was driving so damned slow, every street had an obstacle, this was taking forever, he couldn't stand it! He beat a tattoo on the armrest.

Duncan looked back at him. "Maybe the coffee wasn't such a good idea," the Highlander said wryly.

Richie made a face and shoved his hands under his arms. It was an eternity before they finally pulled up next to the Thunderbird. He catapulted out of the back seat and into Duncan's car. "Let's go!" he urged.

Duncan thanked Joe for his help and quickly looked over the car before taking the driver's seat. Richie sighed in frustration.

"What's the rush?" Duncan asked.

"Drop me at the store, OK? You can pick me up on the way back."

Duncan started the car. "It'll only take a minute to pick up my things at the dojo. Then we can leave straight from the store."

Richie opened his door. "I can walk from here. It's not far." He reached for his backpack in the back seat.

Duncan grabbed the back of his collar. "Sit!" he ordered. "If you're that anxious, we'll go to the store first."

"Shit," Richie muttered under his breath. He needed Plan B. What was Plan B? Just make a run for it? He looked around him. There was nowhere to run. He might as well go to the store with Mac and get a few more of his own things.

Duncan at least drove faster than Joe. Within a few minutes, they were parking near the church hall.

"I'll be right back," Richie promised. A few seconds in his room, and he could high-tail out the back entrance. Unfortunately, Duncan managed to appropriate Richie's backpack first, making it clear that he was going into the store, too. It was all Richie could do to keep from putting his fist through the T-Bird's roof.

He got out of the car, noticing for the first time that the sun was shining and the air was unseasonably warm for December. He surveyed the street. Aside from the boarded-up windows, the neighborhood was almost back to normal. The collapsed building at one end of the block was carefully roped off and barricaded. A couple of kids bumped by on bicycles, enjoying the challenge of the broken sidewalk.

I'll miss this place, Richie realized, a lump in his throat. I wish I hadn't screwed up.

"Coming?" Duncan said, looking at him curiously.

Embarrassed, Richie nodded and led the way into the store. The first thing he noticed was that the power was back on. With the front windows covered, the fluorescent lights gave the tumbled interior a garish, off-color look. Richie paused at the front of the store to contemplate the godawful mess laid out before him.

"Richie!"

A dark blur barreled from the back of the store and into his arms.

"Richie!" Angie flung her arms around his neck and clung to him. "Where have you been? I've been looking all over for you! Are you OK? Where have you _been?_"

Stunned, Richie automatically wrapped his arms around her and squeezed, grateful that Angie couldn't see his face. Then he heard Duncan clear his throat behind him, and he immediately released Angie and backed away.

"Hello, Angie," Duncan said.

Angie touched Richie's face and smoothed her hands over his neck and shoulders. "Oh, Richie, what's wrong?" she asked. "What happened? Why were you..."

Richie felt Mac's hand on his shoulder in warning. I know! he fumed silently. I know what I have to do!

Willa interrupted, confirming the necessity for caution. "Thank goodness!" she exclaimed as she joined them. "I was beginning to think the earth had swallowed you up!" She put out her arms, and Richie gave her a quick, fierce hug, his eyes stinging again. He willed himself back into detachment.

"Where have you been?" Willa asked. "Angie and I have been searching high and low for you. It didn't help that not an answering machine in town is in working order!"

Richie shrugged. "I was with Mac. We had some stuff we had to do. Sorry."

Willa frowned and Angie was silent. Richie blushed under their joint scrutiny. He knew he was a jerk, abandoning Willa to deal with the aftermath of the earthquake by herself. That wasn't exactly news, was it? He was leaving Angie with even greater burdens to bear. The least he could do was clear out before they found out just how big a loser he really was.

"Look," he blurted. "I'm taking off. I just came back to pick up my stuff."

Angie made a strangled noise, and both Willa and Mac stepped back in shock, as if clearing an arena for the two lovers. "You're leaving?" Angie asked in an odd voice.

Richie tried to look at her, but he couldn't bear the hurt in her eyes. "Yeah," he said belligerently.

Angie stepped closer to him. "No, you're not," she declared. "You are _not _running away from this!"

Her anger was a relief; it unleashed his own. "It's not up to you," he snapped. "Go find yourself some squeaky-clean college boy who can give you what you want!"

"Oh!" Angie gripped his shirt and half-shook, half-punched him. "All I ever asked you for was the truth. That's all I ever asked you for!"

Richie choked on a laugh. "You know the truth! You were there, for God's sake! Isn't it fucking obvious _I don't want you?_"

"Richie!" Duncan grabbed Richie's arm and jerked him away from Angie.

Angie seemed about to make some scathing retort, but instead she turned on her heel and stalked over to the counter to grab her coat and purse. On her way out the door she stopped to glare at Richie, whose elbow was still firmly in Duncan's grip. "You have a nice trip," she said, her voice trembling. "A nice, _long _trip."

"You got that right!"

Angie walked out the front door, and a moment later Richie heard her break into a run. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Run, he thought. Run as fast as you can.

Duncan dropped his hold on Richie's arm. The silence inside the store was deadly.

"I think you'd better go after her," Willa finally said to Duncan.

Duncan shook his head apologetically. "I'm sorry, Willa, but I can't."

"Go on, Mac," Richie said harshly. "I gotta pack anyway."

"Fine," Duncan said, his eyes narrowing. "Let's get started."

"Arrgh!" Richie growled, mortified by Duncan's parental attitude. He stormed through the store and up the stairs to his room, where he snatched one of his motorcycle posters off the wall and ripped it into pieces. He stuffed the paper into the wastebasket that still held his bloody jacket. With a sweep of one arm, he sent most of his books tumbling from the bookshelf to the floor.

Slightly pacified by the resulting mess, he moved over to his desk. He plucked Tessa and Emily's pictures out of the lamp shade and stuffed them into his picture album. Flipping quickly through his other papers, he found nothing of any real interest. Then he remembered the envelope of vital documents—passport, false ID, contact numbers—that was pasted to the bottom of one desk drawer. He yanked out the drawer, removed the envelope, and stuck that inside the album, too.

He heard Willa and Mac clump up the stairs. They stopped in the doorway. "You might need this," Duncan said, tossing Richie his backpack.

"Thanks," Richie muttered. "I got it from here."

"I'll get your toothbrush." Duncan stalked down the hall.

Willa stepped inside the room and began stacking the fallen books on the desktop. "You might as well take the computer, too," she offered. "Won't do me any good without you."

"Hey!" he objected. "I've got the whole inventory on there. You can't just throw all that work away."

"I'm not the one throwing things away."

Ouch. "You don't know anything about it," Richie said darkly.

"Got a better job offer, did you?"

He laughed. "Yeah, sure." He glanced over at the door. Mac's buzz indicated he was still nearby.

Richie perched on the edge of the desk and fiddled with one of the books, pondering what to say. "Look," he said. "This is the best job I ever had. Ever will have. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't given me a break."

Willa nodded slightly.

"I'm really sorry about ditching on you."

"Then don't."

"I've got to. I...I..." For a moment Richie couldn't remember why he _was _leaving, except that he simply couldn't face the pity and contempt in his friends' eyes.

"I'm not a fool, Richie. I know this has something to do with that man who mugged you the other night."

"Oh." More recent events had nearly wiped that embarrassing incident from his memory. He shrugged. "Yeah, I guess so," he admitted.

"What I can't figure out is why you're taking it out on Angie. And me."

"You're better off without me." Richie buried the photo album in his backpack and slung the bag over his shoulder.

Willa put her hands on her hips. "Not likely. It'll be pretty lonely around here without you."

"I'm sorry, Willa." Richie moved toward the door.

She blocked him, wrapping her hand around the strap of the backpack that cut across his chest. "I know some jujitsu, too, you know."

"It might be worth it," he said with a slow smile, "just to see what you can do."

"You might be surprised."

He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. Then he straightened. "Hey, Mac," he called. "I need to get rescued again."

Duncan reappeared. He clapped a hand on Willa's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said. "We really do have to go. Will you check on Angie for us?"

"Where are you going?" Willa asked. "Are you coming back?"

"We haven't decided," Duncan admitted. "Will you..."

"I'll call Angie's father," Willa said. She moved aside, allowing Richie to slip past her. "You take good care of this one."

"My word of honor."

Mac's words wafted down the staircase after Richie. He frowned. Mac took his honor seriously—shaking him now would be hell. Richie scanned River Street for Angie as he trotted over to the Thunderbird. He knew she wouldn't be hanging around, not after the things he'd said, but nevertheless he was disappointed by her absence.

What did you expect? he asked himself. She's history. Just be glad she and Willa both made it out of your miserable life in one piece.

He took a deep breath and let his eyes sweep quickly over the neighborhood for the last time. Then he retrieved the backup katana from the T-Bird's back seat, cramming it as far as possible into his bulging backpack.

Mac's buzz twinged in his brain. Annoyed, Richie spun around to face him.

"Was that your idea of 'doing the right thing'?" Duncan asked somberly.

Richie exploded. "Fuck you, fuck you, FUCK YOU!" He swung his backpack against the car with all his might, gouging an ugly dent in one door and cracking the ivory handle of the katana.

He gasped in horror and dropped the bag, staring dumbfounded at what he had done. Not only had he damaged Mac's prized automobile, he had also ruined a fine sword for no reason whatsoever. Two cardinal sins in one temper tantrum. Who else could manage that? Richie opened his mouth to say "Sorry," but no words came out.

Duncan nudged the backpack aside with one foot and stepped in close. Richie expected, at the least, to be grabbed by the arm again. Still frozen in dismay, he didn't even react when Duncan put an arm around him and pulled him to his chest.

It was the most open gesture of affection Richie could ever remember from Duncan. Under any other circumstances he would have resisted, but he was nearly numb from the emotional exertions of the morning. He stood woodenly in Duncan's arms as the Highlander kneaded the back of his neck.

Slowly, tentatively, he gripped Duncan's back, feeling the katana stowed beneath his trenchcoat. This is good-bye, he realized. Does Mac know that? He gulped and buried his face in Duncan's shoulder. The raincoat smelled of mud, and sweat, and blood. Richie shivered.

"We've got to get you a coat," Duncan murmured. "Not to mention a sword. Let's head back to the dojo and see what we can find."

Richie pulled out of the embrace. "No," he said. He wasn't able to keep his voice steady. "I gotta take off. I'm not going out to the cabin with you."

Duncan cradled Richie's face and jaw in one large hand. "You said you'd stay with me for a while."

"Until I was over the Q. I'm OK now."

"Let's get one thing straight," Duncan said gruffly. "You are not OK."

Richie hardly had enough energy left to be angry. "I'm not a kid anymore, Mac," he said. "It's my life. I'm just asking you to leave me alone."

"That's the one thing I won't do," Duncan said. "And it has nothing to do with your age. I'm going with you, Rich. If you won't let me go with you, I'll follow you. But since I'm the one with the cash, you might be better off just getting in the car."

Richie snorted.

"You've spent enough time alone," Duncan argued. "You need somebody, Richie."

"So what?" he asked derisively. "Since when does anybody care what I need?" He waved a hand toward the quake-damaged building just down the block. "You remember that kid, Rajiv? If it had been little Richie Ryan under those bricks nobody would have given a shit. They would have paved right over me."

"I'm trying to tell you that things have changed, Richie. There are a lot of people here who care about you, including me. That's why I can't just let you run away."

Richie summoned what remained of his strength and took off down the sidewalk. He leaped over the construction barrier and veered into the first available hiding place—the remains of the half-demolished building.

Duncan tackled him at the knees just moments later. Richie sprawled chin-first into a sharp-edged pile of debris.

"God damn it!" he cursed. "Get off me! I'm OK! Just get the hell away from me!"

Duncan released his legs and stood. Immediately Richie rolled over and tried to get up, but Duncan pushed him to a seat on what was left of the building's concrete foundation. The Highlander reached inside his coat and pulled out a handkerchief. "You're bleeding," he explained.

Richie wiped his face and glanced surreptitiously at the sodden cloth, glad to find only bloodstains there. He seemed to have finally run out of tears.

Duncan sat next to him. "You're not OK, Rich," he said. "I know that now. So I don't really care whether you want me around or not. I wouldn't let a stranger walk away in your condition, and I certainly won't let you."

Richie wadded the handkerchief and tossed it into the debris. "You can cut the kid-glove treatment, OK? I don't need a babysitter."

Duncan stood and folded his arms across his chest. He glared down at Richie. "Haven't I let you fight your own battles? I didn't interfere when you took on Katya Turgeneva, did I? I even walked out of that alley and let you face Czeslaw by yourself."

"Like you had a choice?" Richie asked. "When it's just you and me, you can't even fight me like I was a man. Maybe you're afraid I'll start to cry if you make me bleed."

"Damn it, Richie, grow up!"

Richie looked up, startled by Mac's angry response.

"Didn't it ever occur to you that I'm afraid of hurting you again? That I'd like to be—that I'm trying to be—something more to you than just the immortal who taught you how to fight?"

Richie ducked his head. "Mac..." he mumbled. "You are more."

Duncan leaned in to hear what he was saying.

Richie swallowed hard. "But I can't handle that right now," he said hoarsely. "I really, really need to be alone. I really do, Mac."

Duncan sighed and seated himself cross-legged in the bricks at Richie's feet. He ran his hands through his hair, clearly thinking over Richie's plea. "Look," he said finally. "I'll make you a deal. I'll let you go off on your own, and I won't follow you—on one condition. We have to sit down and talk this through. If I were sure you'd really thought about why you're leaving and where you're going, then I could honor your decision. I'd have to."

"Talk?" Richie smothered a laugh. "I can't do that."

"_You _can't talk?" Duncan rested one hand on Richie's foot and squeezed. "I don't mean talking about the past, tough guy. I'm glad you told me the things you did. But I want to talk about this week. About Angie. About us. You can talk about that, can't you?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Sure," Duncan said amiably. "You can tramp all over the world with Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod trailing behind you."

"Some choice," Richie griped. He rubbed an arm across his forehead. "All I have to do is talk about why I'm going?"

"Talk and _listen,_" Duncan said.

"I knew you'd get that part in there," Richie responded. He stood and offered his hand to Duncan. "OK. You've got a deal."

***

Duncan pulled the T-Bird over to the curb and turned off the ignition. An alluring patch of green—and the multiple detours caused by unpredictably damaged streets—had brought him here, to the city park where he and Richie had helped Tessa install a group of her freeform sculptures so long ago. Surely a quiet spot with happy memories would be a better place for conversation than the dojo.

Richie shifted impatiently in his seat. "You couldn't pick somewhere we could get a beer?"

"Not a good idea," Duncan said. "Especially not with medication." Too late, he realized that the reference to the tranquilizer had wounded Richie.

Richie scrambled out of his seat and slammed the car door behind him. Head bowed, he walked up the gentle slope toward the group of abstract statuary.

Tessa's legacy, Duncan thought. Some stone and metal—like the headstone that would have capped Richie's grave if not for Czeslaw's sacrifice. He shook his head. No! Tessa's legacy was more than that—more to him, and more to Richie. Without her, the two men would never have been more to each other than temporary teacher and student. With her, they were a family. And families were permanent. But how could he expect Richie to know that?

Already Duncan regretted the deal he had made with the younger man. There was desperation in Richie's eyes. If Richie couldn't be convinced to face his demons, he _would _run—and this time, he might not make it back.

Duncan wiped his sweaty palms on his coat and followed Richie up the hill. He'd entered sword fights with less apprehension. But in these circumstances he had no idea what to say or do. "Just listen" might be good therapeutic advice, but this day called for more active measures. He made a silent appeal to Darius, his own confessor, praying for some share of the old priest's wisdom and compassion.

Richie stood with his back to Duncan, one hand idly stroking the smooth curves of a doughnut-shaped sculpture. He kicked at the statue's base. "It's broken," he pointed out.

Duncan looked down at the cracked foundation. "We'll get it fixed," he promised. He touched Richie's back. "How about you?"

"Cracked beyond repair!" Richie joked. "Mixed up, freaked out, doped up, _not OK._"

Duncan winced at hearing his words quoted back at him. "'Not OK' doesn't mean beyond repair," he protested. "But instant healing only works on flesh and blood, and only for immortals. Broken hearts heal slow and hard. For everybody."

"Broken hearts," Richie scoffed. "Sure."

Duncan decided not to justify the statement. He leaned against another of the sculptures and waited for Richie to speak.

Eventually Richie turned to face him. "You wanna know where I'm going?" he asked. "Away from here. How'm I getting there? On foot. Why am I going? 'Cause Angie found out about me." He sighed. "It's for her protection."

Duncan folded his arms across his chest. "Bullshit," he barked. "You just hurt her as badly as anyone ever will. You could tell her some or all of the truth, if you wanted to. You could stay with her, or not. Either way, you don't have to leave town."

"Maybe I want to."

Duncan's temper flared. "Would that be because nobody here cares about you? Or because you don't care about us?" So much for acting like Darius, he thought. Well, to hell with that!

Richie's eyes narrowed. "Hey, maybe it's both."

"Angie was right. You're on the run. You're scared." He stepped forward and pushed against Richie's chest. "What are you running from, Richie?"

Richie batted his hand aside. "I'm doing you all a favor. You think I'm an asshole now? Just wait!"

"You mean we might find out the rest."

The quick flash of fear in Richie's eyes revealed the accuracy of his diagnosis.

"I already know," Duncan said. "Anne gave me the basic facts about the abuse, everything you said she could tell me. And Joe told me what happened inside the bar. Is there something worse than that, something I don't know?"

Richie fell back against the statue, his eyes widening in shock. He was speechless for a full minute. "Joe..." he managed to whisper. "Joe was watching?"

The pain in Richie's voice was so raw that it raised goose bumps along Duncan's arms. "There was nothing to see—Czeslaw didn't touch you, Rich. All he did while you were unconscious was tie your hands."

Richie closed his eyes and sighed. He swallowed. "But...he was going to."

"No, Rich," Duncan corrected him firmly. "Czeslaw was using you, but not for that. I don't think he was the kind of man who would ever have taken advantage of you." He put one hand atop Richie's shoulder, sensing the tension and high-charged emotion that coursed through the younger man. "Even if the offer did come from you."

"Oh." The breath whooshed out of Richie's chest. The tint of his cheeks was so green that Duncan feared he might pass out. Immediately, he eased Richie to a seat on the grass and crouched beside him.

"I told you you wouldn't want to know," Richie said with a shaky laugh. He buried his head in his hands and laughed again, and then again, as if he couldn't control the response.

Duncan cursed his own foolhardiness. Why had he chosen to confront Richie here, so far away from help? He'd give almost anything right now for Anne's prescription or Coltec's medicine bag or even Darius's tea! Feeling helpless, he rubbed Richie's back vigorously and murmured loving words in his native Gaelic—the only way he could express his own feelings without further humiliating Richie.

Eventually Richie quieted. He pulled away in embarrassment and stared at the ground for a minute before looking at Duncan. His expression was resigned. "So just say it," he said.

Duncan hesitated, but it was too late now to pretend ignorance. "Why did you...Richie...why, why in God's name would you suggest such a thing?"

Richie was stone-faced. "That's what he wanted, and I knew you wouldn't give it to him." He shrugged. "So what? If it gave you and Amanda time to get away, who cares?"

"I care!" Duncan shouted. He was in a dark place somewhere between fury and heartbreak. "I bloody well care! Did I not tell you to stay away? Have I not told you a hundred, a thousand times that you are not to risk your life for me? And this—this—I would never have imagined that you could do this."

Richie flushed. "It was just sex. I could handle it."

"You obviously can't handle it, now can you?"

Richie smiled lopsidedly and didn't answer.

Duncan wiped a hand across his mouth and made every effort to contain his anger. "Don't tell me it was 'just sex.' It was life. It was honor. Do you think I'd want to go on living at your expense, knowing what you'd done?" He gripped Richie's arm. "DO YOU?"

Richie shook his head.

"No, I would not," Duncan agreed, his voice high-pitched. "I would not."

"At least you'd be alive." Defiance gleamed in Richie's eyes. "I don't give a shit about honor. I never did."

"I failed you," Duncan mourned. "It's my fault. I didn't teach you your own value." Somehow he had to make Richie understand the source of his fear and outrage. "To fight for someone else is one thing. Foolish maybe, but I understand it. To sell yourself...you must never do that, not for me, not for anyone, not for _any reason._I forbid you to, do you hear me?"

Richie shot to his feet. "You think it's better to be dead than to get screwed?" His words twisted into Duncan's gut like a bayonet. "I guess I should be dead then."

Hairs prickled on the back of Duncan's neck. The savage expression on Richie's face was more revealing than anything in his Watcher file. At that moment, he knew for a certainty that Richie had long since faced the choice of death or dishonor—and had chosen not to die.

He rose slowly and brushed his hands down the outside of Richie's arms. "Forgive me," he said. "I value your life—more than my own. If that was at stake, then I thank God that you chose to live." He dug his thumbs into the inside of Richie's elbows. "But, please, Richie, don't ever make that choice on my behalf.I should have said from the first that I...I don't deserve such a sacrifice. I don't want it. I'm grateful in ways I can't begin to express, but the cost was far too high. Do you understand that? Richie?"

"I guess not," Richie said stiffly.

Duncan conjured up a small smile. "OK," he said. "I guess we'll have to work on that." He put his hands on Richie's shoulders. "Stay here, Richie. Let me help."

"Don't need it," Richie said, pulling away. "I gotta go."

"No," Duncan contradicted. "First you promised to tell me why you're leaving. And don't tell me it's to protect Angie, because I know it's not."

"I guess you don't know everything after all."

"So tell me."

"God, Mac!" Richie flung his arms wide. "You were there. So was she. Maybe she didn't know what that quickening was, but if I tell her she'll know all right. She'll know what I am."

"You're an immortal. You can't change that." His voice dropped. "Would it be so awful if Angie knew?"

"Yes," Richie choked. "_Yes._"

"Why, Rich?" Duncan pleaded. "Just tell me why."

Richie's shoulders slumped in defeat and his eyes shifted to focus on his feet. He wrapped his arms around himself and cleared his throat. "It's not just that I'm an immortal," he confessed. "I'm a freak. A _pervert. _I mean, I killed a man—and then I...you know." His eyes met Duncan's for an instant before his gaze skittered away. "It's sick," he said hollowly. "It makes me sick."

The desolation in Richie's voice brought tears to Duncan's eyes. He moved closer, but Richie backed even further away.

"It wasn't the first time, either," Richie said. "It happened before, in Portland. I still dream about it sometimes." His lips twisted into a sardonic smile. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm guessing that doesn't make me the kind of guy you want to take home to meet your parents."

Duncan closed his eyes and berated himself. Why hadn't he seen this coming? Joe had laid out all the clues for him. "Oh, Rich," he said. "Sometimes you make me so sad."

Richie looked away.

He tried to correct Richie's misinterpretation as simply as he could. "There's nothing wrong with you, Rich. A quickening is just a transfer of energy. It's not under your control. You might as well feel guilty for being electrocuted."

The words had no apparent impact. Duncan sighed and tried again. "Everybody experiences sexual side effects. It's only a small part of what happens when you take someone's quickening. You know that. Your reaction doesn't mean anything about who you are, who you're attracted to, or why you killed. Those are completely different things."

Richie was not convinced. "But you never...it never happened to you."

"Sure it has," he said matter-of-factly. "If not during the quickening, then immediately after. Almost always." He tilted his head. "You're living in the body of a 19-year-old male, Rich. How much stimulation does it take?"

Richie's eyes opened wide. "Shit!" he cursed. He slapped his hand against the closest sculpture so viciously that the metal rang. "_SHIT!_"

"I'm sorry, buddy," Duncan said, "but it's normal." He'd never thought to address this particular drawback to Richie's youth. Connor, who had died at almost the same age as Richie, would not have made the same mistake. "It's nothing for you to worry about."

Richie still looked distressed and confused. He ran his fingers through his close-cropped hair. "But what about the next time, Mac? What if Angie's there? What am I gonna do?"

"That's something you and Angie have to talk about."

"No!" Richie said. "It's too dangerous." He hung his head and took a deep breath before explaining further. "See, I hurt her even when I wasn't...even when there wasn't any killing." He rested his brow against the polished metal sculpture. "You remember that night in the church? That's the only time we ever slept together. And still I fucked things up!" He banged his head against the metal. "I fuck everything up, Mac. That's why I gotta go. That's the truth."

It's so simple, Duncan thought. And so hard to fix. "No, Richie," he said. "I know you believe that, but you're wrong."

Richie shook his head defiantly. "I told you the truth. You said you'd let me go now."

Duncan glared at him. "We _agreed _that you'd listen to what I have to say."

Richie scowled but leaned back against the sculpture, apparently resigned to carrying out his part of the bargain.

Duncan paused to consider his approach. "I'm afraid I've been falling down on the job as your teacher," he admitted finally. "I should have talked to you about quickenings and all the other complications of being an immortal. Instead I let my own discomfort get in the way."

"God, Mac." Richie wiped at his nose before grinning mischievously. "Are you gonna tell me the immortal facts of life? 'Cause if you are, I gotta get this on tape!"

"Don't be impertinent," Duncan said, with a glimmer of a smile. "If I have to talk about this, you have to listen. I can't let you go off by yourself somewhere with your head stuffed full of misinformation."

Richie ducked his head.

Duncan rubbed a hand across his face. "I assume I don't have to tell you about the birds and the bees. You know how things work. That's no different for immortals, aside from the fact that we can't have children."

"Oh, God," Richie murmured in amazement. "I cannot believe you're doing this."

Duncan ignored him. "What worries me is that you seem to think that your quickening is a purely sexual thing. But that's wrong, Rich. Your quickening is a distillation of who you are—everything you think and feel and remember. An important part of that is your sexuality. But that's not nearly all of you. Not even close."

He thought back to Richie's concerns about Angie. "I know you were upset because Angie touched you while you were healing. It's true, mortals can be hurt when they contact a quickening. But they're in no real danger from the shock itself—unless they have a weak heart, I suppose. So stop beating yourself up about that. It was an accident."

Richie's face crumpled. "You don't get it! I didn't just shock her—I hurt her. Mac, she fell down after she got zapped by my quickening, and I saw these big bruises. From me. From me, Mac." He stretched out his fingers in front of him. "I never thought I could do that to somebody else."

"Oh, Rich." Duncan put an arm around Richie. "I have a hard time believing that Angie would have let you touch her if she didn't want to be touched."

"Maybe she couldn't stop it!"

Duncan's heart broke. He pulled Richie's resisting body a little closer to his own. "No, Rich," he said gently. "We're not talking about you and the man who hurt you."

Richie gasped, but Duncan went on. "We're talking about Angie, here and now. The girl who, as of this morning, was still in love with you. And you know as well as I do that that wouldn't be true if you'd tried to force yourself on her."

Duncan was grateful that Richie couldn't see his face. He'd felt perfectly comfortable discussing sex for at least three centuries now, but things were different when the other person was your child instead of your partner. "Bruises aren't necessarily unusual, Rich. If you think you might be hurting Angie, you have to ask. You've got to talk to her. That's the way it works."

Richie pulled away violently. "Yeah?" he mocked. "You think the next time I kill somebody I'm gonna go find Angie and _ask _her what she wants?" He swayed slightly on his feet. "I'm afraid I'll kill her! _I _will—not anybody else. Me."

Duncan put his hands on Richie's shoulders, steadying him. "Oh, Rich, no. _No. _That's never going to happen."

Richie gazed up at him, his eyes glazed with disbelief and hopelessness.

"Listen to me, Richie," Duncan demanded. "You're mixing up what happened before with what's happening now. You're not thinking straight. Listen to me!" He dug his fingers into Richie's shoulders. "Are you listening?"

Richie blinked and nodded.

"You can't always control how your body reacts—nobody can. But you _can _control how you treat other people. You always have, and you always will." Duncan took a deep breath and struggled to keep his voice steady. "If the bastard who hurt you told you otherwise, it was because he was a goddamned liar and the foulest kind of abomination that ever walked the earth."

Richie shook his head. His eyes glistened with unshed tears. "But Amanda...I..." he said tremulously.

Duncan brushed a hand across Richie's cheek, tucking imaginary curls behind one ear. "You didn't hurt her. You didn't force her. And I didn't leave you with her because I thought you were out of control. I just thought you and Angie needed more time. And if you wouldn't let me take care of you, I wanted you to be with someone who would."

Richie leaned forward, hiding his face in Duncan's convenient shoulder.

Duncan put his arms around Richie and made an effort to lighten his tone. "You know I'm no Puritan, Rich, and neither is Amanda. I'm not about to tell you that the only right way to have sex is after you marry the one and only love of your life. Sometimes sex can just be fun, or comfort, or the kind of affection Amanda feels for you. I don't think that's wrong, as long as both parties are willing and no one else gets hurt. But that's not the same thing Amanda and I feel for each other, and I don't think it's the same thing you and Angie feel, either."

Richie shook his head and muttered something that Duncan didn't catch.

"You've had to deal with quickenings alone before," Duncan said. "So you know you can do it if you have to. But if you tell Angie about your immortality, then she'll know what to expect. You can make a plan together. If you decide to go to her, there are things you can do to make it easier."

"Oh, God!" Richie moaned. "Don't!" He pulled away from Duncan and covered his ears.

Duncan laughed. "Tessa and I learned a lot together. Things she'd want you to know, Rich. She'd never forgive me if I let you cut yourself off from a mortal woman just because she got too close. You know how much Tess hated it when I tried to cut her out of any part of my life."

Richie smiled sheepishly and walked away, circling the group of statuary. Duncan waited, wondering if he was really prepared for a detailed discussion of post-quickening sex. You'd better be, he told himself. I don't think you're going to find any pamphlets for that sort of thing.

Richie circled the statuary a second time before he returned to face Duncan. "It's different for me," he pointed out. "What am I gonna give Angie? You waited your whole life to find Tessa, you were rich, you knew all about everything, and you could beat any immortal that came along. I can't do that."

"Arrgh!" Duncan rapped his knuckles on Richie's head. "You drink too much, you're stubborn, you're overprotective, and you're afraid of women! Don't you ever imitate any of my good habits?"

Richie seemed taken aback by the comparison, but he recovered quickly. "You have _good _habits?" he asked.

Duncan made a face.

"Besides, I'm not afraid of women," Richie said. "I thought that was obvious."

"Your libido I know about," Duncan said dryly. "But until Angie, I never saw you with anyone you even knew well enough to care about."

"So?" Richie countered. "You said fun was OK with you."

"I don't think you had much fun with Felicia, or Laura, or Kristin. They were using you, Richie. They lied to you, they dangled sex in front of you to get what they wanted, they nearly killed you. Don't you think you deserve better than that? Because I think you do."

"But Angie deserves better, too," Richie said wistfully.

"Yes, she does," Duncan said. "If you truly care about her, you have to do more than protect her—you have to respect her. You have to give her feelings and her needs equal weight with yours. And you can't do that unless you tell her the truth."

"But what if telling her hurts her worse than anything?"

Duncan leaned back against the sculpture and thought back to his tempestuous final years with Tessa. Would she have been better off if they had never met? Would he? He could only answer the second question; Tessa had demanded the right to answer the first question for herself. "You are going to hurt her, Rich. Chances are, she'll hurt you, too. That's the risk, when you let someone that close."

"But how do I know if it's worth it? What if I do all that and we aren't even in love?"

Duncan touched Richie's arm. "You asked me that before, didn't you? How you'd know if you were in love?"

Richie smiled self-consciously.

"Sometimes it's hard to recognize, especially when you're young. But it's not some magical state, Richie. It's about finding someone you really know and care about. Someone you would trust with any part of yourself. Someone you need to talk to, _need _to be with. Ask yourself if you're going to be the same person next week if you walk away from Angie now."

Richie looked puzzled. "But you said you loved Amanda, and you didn't even go after her."

Duncan shook his head regretfully. "That's not the same thing, Richie. I had to make a choice. And I knew that this time you needed me most. I do love Amanda, but I don't know if she loves me the same way."

Richie rubbed an arm across his face. "But she does, Mac. She was crying for you, because she knew she was going to leave." His voice dropped to a whisper. "She had to."

"Had to?"

Richie tried to explain. "She's scared, Mac. You don't know what it's like, to be scared like that. I mean, you're so...you expect so much."

Richie's words felt like an accusation. Hurt, Duncan stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. "Let's take a walk, all right?" He directed Richie farther up the grassy slope.

At the crest of the hill a bench looked out over a neighborhood that had been heavily damaged by the earthquake. An apartment building slumped from five stories into two, testimony to unknown lives snuffed out in a few seconds of terror. The two men sat in the afternoon sunlight and observed the destruction all around them.

"There isn't much left, is there?" Richie asked.

"It'll come back," Duncan promised, thinking of all the near-miraculous revivals he had seen in his long life. War, disease, famine, earthquake—nothing could defeat the human spirit for long. "You'll be surprised at how fast it can happen."

Richie leaned forward and clasped his hands. "Doesn't matter," he said flatly. "I'm not coming back for another hundred years, at least."

Duncan pounded his fist against the bench. "Damn it, Richie, that's the wrong decision!"

"Why, 'cause it's not what you'd do?"

"No, because I have done it! I know what it will cost you." So many friends left behind, in so many places, never to be heard from again. "What are you going to do when you're all alone somewhere with no money and no friends, in the state you're in?"

"I hate being like this!" Richie cried. "I can't stand it! I can't stay here when it's all just...it's all just going to spill all over everything."

"I know," he consoled Richie. "I know you're scared. And confused. But you have to trust us enough to take this one last risk. You have to do it, not just for you, but for us. Because we need you, too."

Richie drew in a ragged breath. "I don't know how, Mac. I just don't know how."

"You've already started. You've kept me going since Tess died. You've loved and supported Angie. You've been Willa's right hand. You've helped your neighbors put their community back together. There's no trick to it, Richie. You just have to care. And you have to let us close enough to care for you."

Richie slumped back against the bench with a woebegone expression. Duncan squeezed his shoulder affectionately and tried to think of the words that would finally win the young man over. He smiled, remembering a conversation he had had with Darius more than a century before. "There are two ways to look at life, Richie. You're making a choice now, deciding what you want most—more joy, or less pain. Because you generally can't have both."

Richie let his head drop back against Duncan's arm. He stared up at the sky for a moment and then smiled slightly. "Hey, what's a little pain?" he said, still looking heavenward. "I can take it."

"Ouch!" he said, as Duncan crushed him into a breathtaking hug.

***

Richie and Duncan stood on the sidewalk appraising the Burkes' modest home. Its porch roof sagged despondently, propped up by a few strategically placed two-by-fours. A pot of geraniums had crashed from the porch rail, scattering dirt and shards of terra cotta across the front steps.

Mrs. Burke was really gone, Richie realized. She would never have left those steps unswept.

He sighed. "I thought you wanted me to tell her."

"I _do_," Duncan said. "But it might be a good idea to wait for a day or two. This is not the sort of conversation you should have when you're already...exhausted."

Richie wondered what word Mac had really wanted to put at the end of that sentence. "Sick"? "Crazed"?

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I heal fast, remember? And I'm not going to sleep anyway until this is over, one way or the other."

"Richie..." Duncan hesitated. "You have every right to a full life. It's just the timing I'm worried about."

"I can't do anything about being born at the wrong time, Mac."

Duncan snorted.

Richie sighed—Mac wasn't going to buy any of his diversions today. "Look, I know she's not likely to jump into my arms, OK?"

"Richie."

He made the mistake of looking at Duncan. The sympathy and outright fear that mingled on Mac's face nearly cost him every bit of his recently regained composure. Don't fall apart now, Richie told himself severely. Angie's already seen you as a basket case once this week. Or was it twice? He straightened his shoulders in response to Duncan's unspoken message. "I can't tell her anything if you don't let go of me," he pointed out.

Duncan looked down. He seemed surprised to see that his hand was indeed wrapped around Richie's forearm. He let go.

"Thanks." Richie grinned and headed up the pathway to Angie's home.

Angie's 16-year-old brother threw open the front door. "Rich!" he yelled. He jumped over the porch steps and sprinted down the sidewalk. "Where's Angie? Isn't she with you?"

"Whoa, Alan, slow down!" Angie's normally placid brother was in a state of near panic. "Isn't Angie back yet?"

"No." Alan shook his head. "Willa said she took off after you guys had a big fight. Dad went to look for her 'cause the radio says there's a big fire over between Eastern and Monroe."

"Shit! That's right on her way home!" Right on the way he had sent Angie running—so that she would be safe. God, was he _never _going to learn? Richie had a sudden vision of Mr. Burke and Alan speaking at Angie's funeral. He closed his eyes for an instant and prayed as fiercely as he ever had that someone would strike him dead before he had to sit through that.

Duncan reappeared. "How long has your father been gone?" he asked Alan.

"Almost two hours." Alan made a valiant attempt to repress the quaver in his voice. "I think I better go after them."

"You should stay here in case they call." Duncan found a scrap of paper in his pocket and scribbled down his cell phone number. "Richie and I will go look for them. Call me at this number if they turn up."

"We'll find them," Richie promised. "Don't worry. I know which route she'd take. We'll find her." He turned and sprinted toward the Thunderbird with Duncan on his heels.

Thankfully, Duncan skipped the hopeful platitudes and simply drove as directed along Angie's likely route. Richie cranked open his window and sat on the car door, scanning both sides of the street as he called out Angie's name. Passersby took in the sight with unusual aplomb—hardened, perhaps, by several days of witnessing frantic searches for lost family members. On one street both men had to leave the car to hoist aside a fallen tree trunk. Elsewhere, Duncan threw caution to the winds and simply took the Thunderbird up and over the rocks and debris.

Richie never let his eyes stop searching the roads and sidewalks. Why can't I feel her? he thought angrily. I can feel Mac's buzz, but not Angie? How stupid is that?

"You aren't even sure if she was headed home," Duncan said finally. "Besides, Angie's a smart girl. She wouldn't walk toward a fire. She'd wait, or go around it."

"She went home," Richie said. Today, she had needed to be home. He knew that.

They topped a hill and spotted the fire immediately. Duncan pulled the car to the curb and the two men got out to survey the scene below them. An enormous plume of smoke and ash covered three city blocks, pushed low to the ground by a stiff wind. Richie couldn't tell which buildings were burning and which were simply engulfed in the noxious fumes. Spectators circled two working fire engines that were clearly inadequate to do anything more than contain the blaze.

"How do you get around that?" Richie asked. Oh, God, he prayed. Please help me. Please. _Please. _What does anything matter if Angie's hurt? If she's dead?

Duncan put a hand on his shoulder. "We shouldn't get too close," he cautioned. "We can't search for Angie if we're dead of smoke inhalation."

"And if _she's _dead of smoke inhalation?"

Duncan didn't reply. They climbed back into the car and drove in grim silence down the hill. Although they passed many people fleeing the area on foot, at least as many onlookers were streaming toward the disaster. Duncan urged people to retreat, but his pleas had no effect.

What does he expect? Richie wondered. It's not like we aren't headed in the wrong direction ourselves.

Duncan stopped the car when the surge of people became a crowd. "Let's ask around," he said. "Someone may have spotted her."

No policemen or barriers kept the foolhardy away. Richie paused for a second to determine Angie's most probable route and then plunged into the smoky street directly in front of the bystanders. He heard Duncan curse, and a moment later he felt a heavy hand clasp firmly into the back of his shirt.

Unable to see even the pavement beneath his feet, Richie blundered forward. "Angie!" he shouted. "Angie!" The sirens, the crowd, and the roar of flames added a hellish noise to the obliterating darkness. "Angie!" Hot ashes burned against his face and hands.

Duncan tripped and dragged Richie to the ground with him as he fell. "Stay down!" he shouted in Richie's ear. He coughed. "Rich, this isn't helping! We have to go back!"

"No!" Richie protested. "I have to find her! Mac, I have to!"

Duncan shook him hard. "How many times do you have to learn this lesson?" he yelled. "Use your head! It's no good throwing your life away as a grand gesture. It has to mean something!"

Richie coughed and, once begun, couldn't stop coughing. He wished that he could just breathe a few lungfuls of smoke and die forever, without ever leaving this hazy underworld. That would certainly be preferable to facing the consequences of his actions.

He heard Mac cough again. Mac, who didn't deserve to die, even temporarily, for his stupidity. Not when there was no chance they would ever find Angie in here. It was hopeless. "OK," Richie croaked. "OK. Let's go back."

He had lost track of their position, but of course Duncan hadn't. He pulled Richie unerringly back toward the fire engines. Although they had traveled less than two blocks, both men were crawling and gasping for air by the time the spectators and firefighters came into view.

Two men and a woman leaped forward to help them out of the fire area.

Richie collapsed onto the sidewalk and struggled to breathe. Duncan and the three helpers hovered anxiously over him.

"He's in bad shape," the woman said. "I'll get a doctor."

"No," Duncan wheezed. He grasped her arm. "Don't. We'll be fine. Don't waste their time on us."

Richie sat up and tried his best not to cough again. He didn't succeed. Damn Mac, anyway, he thought crankily. Why can't I heal that fast?

The woman eyed Richie skeptically. "Let us help you to the Red Cross station, then."

"Where?" Duncan asked.

"Up there." The woman pointed toward the far end of the fire.

"Thank you," Duncan said. "Thank you very much. We can make it now."

"Suit yourself." Their would-be rescuers faded back into the crowd.

Richie swayed to his feet.

"Angie could be here in the crowd," Duncan said. "We should check."

By the time they had described Angie to a half-dozen people, Richie's lungs had fully healed. Still, he didn't shake off Duncan's arm. If they didn't find Angie, Mac was going to be the only thing keeping him going, and he knew it.

Three blocks farther on, Richie spotted the Oldsmobile that belonged to Angie's father. Hope leaped up in his chest—dashed only seconds later when a quick scan revealed that Angie was nowhere in sight. Mr. Burke, however, sagged against the side of the car, his face haggard and griefstricken. He didn't appear to recognize Richie and Duncan in their disheveled state.

"Mr. Burke," Duncan said. He reached for the man's hand and gripped it for several long seconds. "Have you had any luck finding Angie?"

Angie's father stared hollowly into the blaze and shook his head. "No," he said. "She's gone. My little girl." He began to weep. "She's gone."

Duncan released Richie to support Mr. Burke. "Help me, Rich," he said.

Richie took Mr. Burke's arm, and together he and Duncan managed to walk the distraught father to the makeshift headquarters of the Red Cross. Beneath the awning of a commercial building, volunteers served coffee and cookies, bandaged minor cuts and burns, and took down names of the missing. Richie eased Mr. Burke to a seat on an upturned crate.

"I'll get some coffee," Duncan said, and he disappeared into the bustling crowd.

Abandoned, Richie gazed down at Angie's father. "I'm sorry," he said desolately. "It's my fault."

Mr. Burke dropped his face into his hands.

"But you know that," Richie added.

Mr. Burke made no response. Richie stared down at the sidewalk, counting the seconds until Duncan's return. One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three she's-dead. Four she's-dead. Five she's-dead.

"Richie!" Duncan's voice boomed from the crowd. "Mr. Burke! Richie!"

Richie looked up. Duncan raced toward him, half-carrying a scruffy bundle of a girl. Angie. Angie looking tired and amused and puzzled and _alive_. Richie reeled.

Mr. Burke leaped up and crushed his daughter in his arms. "Dad!" was all that Richie heard Angie say before her voice was muffled in her father's shoulder.

"Angie!" Mr. Burke laughed through his tears. "Oh, Angie."

Richie had never felt more relieved, or more out of place. He remembered to say a silent prayer of thanks before he stepped back and edged his way out of the shelter. At the curb he looked back over his shoulder at Duncan. The Highlander beamed at the father and daughter reunion. The open envy on Duncan's face cut Richie to the quick.

As if he sensed the observation, Duncan turned and gazed at Richie. Richie jerked his head to the side to indicate that it was time for him to leave.

Duncan glowered. He pushed his way over to Richie. "When life gives you second chances, you take them," he scolded. He pulled his car keys out of his pocket and dangled them before Richie's amazed eyes. "Now take Angie somewhere and talk."

Richie plucked the keys from Duncan's hand. "Gee, thanks, _Dad,_" he joked.

Duncan's mouth tightened, and Richie wished he could take back his words. He hadn't meant to make fun of Mac's feelings.

Duncan pushed him forward. "Go on."

"Mac!"

"Just call me afterward. No matter what happens."

Richie capitulated. "OK, Mac," he promised. He stuffed the car keys in his pocket and ventured toward Angie and her father.

When Angie spotted Richie, she eased out from under her father's arm. "It's OK, Dad," she said, the child comforting the adult. "Richie and I need to talk. I'll be home as soon as I can."

Mr. Burke kissed his daughter and, as he walked away, touched one hand lightly on Richie's shoulder. Heartened by that small show of support, Richie met Angie's eyes. If he had expected to find sympathy there, he was disappointed. Angie was composed and aloof.

He bit his lip and jangled the keys in his pocket. "Can I give you a lift somewhere?"

"Are you sure you _want _to?" Angie asked.

Richie smiled. "Yeah," he said boldly. "I'm sure."

"OK, then," Angie said. "Let's go to your place."

***

 

Angie coughed but otherwise made hardly a sound on the drive to the hardware store. When Richie began his apologies and tried to ask about her welfare, she merely turned to the window and shrugged, as if to say "Not now." Richie hunched over the steering wheel. He knew what to say and do when Angie was angry, but he had no idea how to cope with her silence.

By the time they reached the store, the early darkness of mid-December blanketed the quiet street. A chill breeze kicked around their feet, chasing away the warmth of the afternoon and hinting at smoke and fire and snows yet to come. The store was locked—Willa had gone home. Angie stood by patiently as Richie fiddled with the lock and then pried open the hastily repaired front door.

He stepped inside and flipped on the overhead lights. The twisted wreck of metal shelving seemed to lunge toward him in the fluorescent glare, and Richie jumped back, his heart pounding in his throat.

"Be right back." He turned and ran outside. He bowed over the hood of the T-Bird and forced himself to breathe slowly. What was that all about? Now he was scared of _shelves? _He laughed aloud. Chet was dead. Katya Turgeneva was dead. The only person waiting in there was Angie.

He stood up. Searching for an explanation for his hasty retreat, he spotted his backpack and sword in the back seat. They could prove useful. He retrieved them and returned to the store.

Angie remained near the front counter, her expression one of uncertainty and regret. The unforgiving light accentuated her sooty face and the wild disarray of her hair. Richie thought briefly of a grubby little girl he had once known, and her fierce determination not to be beaten at basketball by a smaller and even grubbier little boy.

He placed his sword and backpack on the countertop next to Angie.

She spoke at last. "Does that mean you're staying?"

"I don't know," he said. "That kind of depends on you."

"On me?" Angie shook her head and wrapped her jacket more closely around her.

Richie repressed a shiver. The store might have electricity, but it sure as hell didn't have heat. The gas must be out. He rubbed at the back of his neck. "Yeah," he responded. "'Cause if you believe me, you'll probably want to call the cops to haul my ass off to jail." Angie's pained expression—and her lack of surprise—told Richie that she had always expected prison to be part of his future. The realization left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"And if you don't believe me," he said flippantly, "you'll probably want to send me to the funny farm."

Angie's dark brows knit together in puzzlement. "I don't know what you're talking about, Richie. I just want to know what's going on. Anne said you could explain. Why did you tell me that story about the serial killer?" She took a tentative step toward him. "What happened to you in the street the other day?"

He took a deep breath. "OK. I'll tell you." He shoved his backpack aside and lifted the katana carefully by its cracked handle. He held out the sword so that she could examine it.

Angie sighed, her disappointment in him obvious. "Are you expecting ninja looters or something? There isn't even anything in here worth stealing!"

"Someone could come in here at any time," Richie explained, "and this sword is the only way I could defend myself. I have to have it with me all the time." Ignoring Angie's understandable skepticism, he headed for a spot near the back of the store. "Do you remember the woman who was stalking Joe a couple months ago?" He pointed the sword at his feet. "I killed her, Angie. Right here. Sometimes I think I can still see her blood on the linoleum."

Angie was speechless. She must be trying to recall the phone number for the loony bin, Richie thought. With her job, she probably knows it.

He walked back to her with the sword carefully tucked up under his arm. "The serial killer that Joe and I told you about? His name was Chet. He was hunting Amanda. I killed him, too."

"Oh, Richie..." Angie crooked her head. "I know you. You'd never hurt anybody. All the times you got in trouble, you never hurt anybody."

Richie shook his head. "I'm not that person anymore, Ange. I _have _to use a sword. 'Cause these guys coming after me aren't ordinary killers. You can't hurt them with guns. The only way to kill them is to chop their heads off."

Angie's eyes widened. She took a step back.

Either she's getting it, or she knows I'm nuts for sure, Richie thought. And there's only one way to prove that it's not all in my head. He lifted the katana like a violin bow and drew the blade easily over the inside of his left elbow and down his wrist. The sword cut through his flesh cleanly, slicing his shirt sleeve away from his arm like an orange peel.

"Ah!" Angie charged toward him. "Oh, Richie, no! No! Don't do that!"

This time he was prepared for Angie's reaction. He dropped the sword and dodged away, leaping onto the front counter. He held out his wrist so that Angie could see the deep cut and the blood that gushed down his arm and into his hand, but she couldn't touch the wound.

"Richie!" she shrieked. "Get off of there! You'll bleed to death!"

"Do you see it, Ange? It's real. Not a trick. Just watch." Richie felt giddy. This truth-telling stuff was exhilarating. Either that or the sight of blood was getting to him, too.

"Richie!" Angie grabbed for his feet.

He danced away. "I'll get down, Angie, if you promise you won't touch me until I say it's OK."

"OK, OK! Just get down!"

He collapsed to a seat on the counter, making sure that his bloody wrist was still out of Angie's reach. With his uninjured arm, he waved her off. "Watch, Ange. Watch for just a minute and you'll see. But don't touch me, or you'll get shocked again."

When he felt the healing begin, he held up his arm. "Look!" A burst of sparks flickered over his arm, neatly zipping up the wound.

"What?" Angie faltered. She looked as if she needed to sit down, too.

"You can touch it now," Richie said. He ripped off the remnant of his shirt sleeve and used it to swab away the blood. "See, there's not even a scar."

Angie reached for his arm. Her fingers traced over the soft flesh at the inside of his elbow and then down and around his forearm. He wiggled his fingers for her. "But how can it happen?" she asked. "Was it a trick?"

Richie slid off the counter. "I wouldn't pull a trick like that on you, Ange." He cleared his throat. "That electricity is called my quickening. All immortals have it. It's what heals us from anything except losing our heads. It's what zapped you the other day when my foot was healing."

Angie squinted at him, clearly at a loss. "Immortals?" she asked.

Richie grinned. "Yeah, it's a stupid name, I know. I guess technically we could live forever, if we never got killed by another immortal. But we always do."

"There are a lot of people who can heal like that?"

Does she really believe me? Richie wondered. I can't be that lucky. "Yeah. Mac and Amanda, for starters. We have to keep it a secret, so I shouldn't give you names, but I guess you could figure those two out. They wouldn't care, anyway."

"But why would people like that try to kill each other?"

"Tradition, I guess." Richie spread his hands. "Supposedly the immortal who beats all the other immortals gets 'The Prize.' Like ruling the whole world or something. I always figured it was one of those three wishes kind of things, where the guy tells the genie he wants total power and he gets turned into a circuit board or something."

Angie smiled faintly at his little joke. "But they do...all of them...they actually chop people's heads off with swords? _Why?_"

"Not everybody fights, at least not all the time. But most do. You have to defend yourself, because every immortal is on his own. Nobody can help you." Richie rubbed a hand across his face and sighed. "And it's gonna keep on happening, because...see, when one immortal kills another one, he gets to take the other one's quickening." He looked up. "That's what you saw, after I killed Chet."

Angie's eyes filled with tears. "You're saying you cut his head off with a sword?"

"Yeah." Richie gripped his bloody arm across his chest and forced himself to keep his eyes on Angie's face.

"Why?" Angie repeated.

"Um..." Richie pondered. How much honesty was required here? "He was...he was gonna kill Amanda. And Mac, if he got in the way—which he would."

Angie waited.

Shit, Richie cursed silently. She's too damn smart. He leaned back against the counter and tried to formulate his words as inoffensively as possible. "He was gay, Ange. He felt me up pretty good, let me know that he was...that he wanted to do me next. And he said he knew about you. I was afraid he might hurt you, too."

Angie dragged her hands through her messy hair and stared at Richie. She didn't seem to know which part of his statement to respond to. "But why would Chet hurt me?" she asked eventually. "I never even met him. And I don't have any, uh..."

"Quickening," Richie supplied. "I know, but once you start killing your own kind..." He shrugged. "Not all immortals are like that—Mac thinks immortals are supposed to protect mortals—but some of them are."

"That's what he's been doing? Teaching you how to _kill?_" Angie's hands fluttered to her throat.

"He's been teaching me how to fight with a sword, so I can defend myself from other immortals."

"Oh." Angie wheeled away, stumbling over her own feet in her eagerness to escape. She halted just short of the broken door. "Did you really kill people?" she asked, without turning to face Richie.

He walked toward her, stopping several paces away and pressing his hands under his arms so that she wouldn't feel threatened. "I've killed six immortals," he said. "I cut their heads off and I took their quickenings."

He expected Angie to vanish at that admission, but she stayed rooted to her spot by the door. She turned, lifted her chin, and pinned him with her gaze. "Did they attack you? Was it self-defense?"

Richie sighed and let his hands fall to his side, where he wiped them on his jeans. If only she hadn't asked that question. But he had known all along that she would. "Sometimes."

"And sometimes not?" Angie asked, her voice catching.

"Sometimes I was trying to protect other people," Richie explained. "The first time...the first time it happened, I was trying to help this girl named Laura. Her husband beat her up, and she attacked him, so she was running from the cops. And this immortal who was after her just ran her down. Ran her down with his car and didn't give a damn that he killed her." His hands balled into fists. Even now, the memory made him furious. "He didn't give a damn, Angie! She was just another stupid, beat-up, throwaway kid and he didn't give a _friggin' damn_that he killed her!"

"I know you couldn't stand that," Angie said softly.

Her dark eyes, filled with sorrow, telegraphed a shocking truth. Killing Mako hadn't been about avenging Laura. It had been about him. "No!" Richie said, rejecting Angie's interpretation as well as her pity. "I challenged the bastard. He could have said no, but he didn't. I just won by a fluke."

Angie was quiet for several moments before she spoke again. "What about the others?"

"One was a drug dealer who took me hostage. One was this guy who came after me at a motel one night, right after I had the shit scared out of me. I guess I don't know if that was self-defense or not. And one was this asshole I met in some bar in Portland. Kind of a bar-room brawl for immortals. That one was as much my fault as his." Richie tried to slow down the rush of words. "After that was the Russian. She came after me here in the store one night, the night she knocked Willa out."

"And Chet made six."

"I'm sorry, Angie." Richie squinted up into the glare of the overhead lights, grateful at least that the interrogation was nearly over. "I'm sorry I did it, and I'm sorry I lied to you."

He waited for her to leave, but she didn't.

Angie leaned back against the door, apparently letting the onslaught of confessions sink in. She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. "It's a good thing I don't believe you," she said eventually.

Richie blinked. How could she not believe the evidence of her own eyes? "You have to believe me, Ange. It's true. You can talk to Mac. Or Anne—she's a doctor, and she knows about us. And Joe can tell you. He's not an immortal, but he knows all about them."

"Richie, I don't know about the healing. There's got to be a reason for that. But the rest of it—it can't be true. I think maybe you...you know, it's like one of your nightmares. It's because of all the awful things that happened to you. It seems real, but it's not."

For one moment, Richie wondered if she might be right. Nothing had seemed real to him for a very long time. The last week, in particular, felt very much like a nightmare—its events were already evaporating from his memory, leaving behind only a poisonous emotional residue.

Maybe it _was _a dream...His spirits lifted. He took a step toward Angie.

She held out her hands, and Richie barreled into her arms, pushing her back against the door in his enthusiasm and need. He buried his face in her hair and lost himself in her musky, smoky scent and the warmth of her body, the sensation of her hands clutched in the back of his shirt and of her face pressed against his neck.

Angie laughed. "Richie, I can't _breathe._"

He dropped her so hastily that she laughed again. "It's OK, Richie, you don't have to—"

He hushed her. With his thumb, he traced lightly down her throat to the hollow at the top of her collarbone. Angie's laugh. That was real. He touched his forehead to hers. All of it was real. If he denied the last week, he'd have to deny all the other things, too. Angie's unwavering friendship. Their night in the church, the one and only time in his life when he had understood how sex might be something sacred between two people. And all the rest of it, too. Mac's astonishing and overwhelming love. Anne's compassion, Amanda's tenderness, Willa's understanding—even Joe's gruff support. They had all put themselves between him and the darkness, each in their own way. He couldn't deny the darkness without denying them.

Richie kissed the top of Angie's head before pulling away. He gathered her hands in his own, smiling at her bitten nails, and touched her fingers gently to his lips. "It is true," he said hoarsely. "I wish it wasn't, but it is."

He dragged in one deep, shuddering breath and released her hands. "It's not going to work for us, Angie." He struggled for just another few minutes of control. "You better leave."

Angie lay one cool hand against his cheek. "Oh, no, Richie," she promised solemnly. "I won't leave you."

He sobbed.

Angie threw her arms around him. "It's all right. Oh, sweetheart, it's all right."

Sweetheart. No one had ever called him that. No mother or grandmother, no lover. "Oh, Angie," Richie gulped. A single tear raced down his cheek. "I love you." It wasn't what he had meant to say. He knew perfectly well that this was the worst possible time to say it.

"You see?" Angie whispered. "That wasn't so hard."

Richie swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to smile. "I'm not sure you're gonna be happy about it for long."

She laughed and leaned back in his arms. "It's freezing down here, Richie." She brushed away the dampness on his cheek and slipped her fingers through his hair. "Can't we go upstairs and wrap up on the couch?"

Richie's dread returned. He couldn't take her up there, not when...not after he and Amanda...he couldn't think about that. "No, Ange. I don't want to go up there."

Angie's certainty had returned. "No, it's going to be all right. You'll see. We're going to talk about it, and it's going to be all right." She took his arm and looked up at him with a smile that was like a benediction.

For the first time, he dared to hope. Maybe it is going to be all right, he thought. Maybe it is.

***

As Duncan watched Richie and Angie walk away, gloom and anxiety swept over him. By some miracle, some lucky choice of words, he had convinced Richie to risk telling Angie the truth. What if that was a mistake? In four hundred years, he himself had taken that risk just once, at a time when he had felt relatively confident of Tessa's response. Richie was so incredibly fragile right now. If Angie broke his heart, she could destroy him.

He sighed. No matter what happened now, Richie's heart was engaged. Sooner or later, he would suffer the consequences. The best Duncan could hope for was that Richie and Angie would have a few good years together before death—or life—intervened.

Duncan started when he heard Mr. Burke clear his throat.

"I'd better find a phone and call my son."

"Oh, no, please, use mine." He reached into his pocket for his cell phone.

Mr. Burke made his call and in return offered Duncan a ride back to the dojo.

Caution told Duncan that he ought to avoid any opportunity for conversation about Angie and Richie and the source of their quarrel. Common sense told him that Mr. Burke, who had just lost his wife and nearly his daughter, shouldn't be burdened with an extended drive through quake-damaged streets. But for once, Duncan let loneliness and exhaustion prevail. "Thank you," he said simply. "I'd appreciate that."

He gave Mr. Burke directions to his home and listened—injecting only an occasional comment—as Angie's father rambled on about the damage caused by the quake, the years he had lived in Seattle, and Angie and Richie's childhood antics. When they reached the dojo, Mr. Burke pulled the Olds over to the curb and turned off the ignition.

"Thank you," Duncan said. "It was good of you to go so far out of your way at a time like this."

"Least I could do," Mr. Burke said. He stared out the windshield. "You know, Sophie always had a soft spot in her heart for Richie. We wanted to do more for him, but we had two kids of our own, and not much to live on."

My God, Duncan thought with amazement. He feels guilty, too. He's apologizing to _me_. "You did a lot," he assured the other man.

"If we'd known..." Mr. Burke shook his head. "But we didn't. Not until it was too late. We should have done more."

This is my chance, Duncan realized. My chance to find out who's responsible for all this pain. But the deep remorse in Mr. Burke's face cut off the words in his throat. This man needed comfort, not questions.

"You were good friends to Richie. I can't tell you how grateful I am for that."

"Well, it's good Richie has somebody to look after him," Mr. Burke said, shrugging off Duncan's assurances. He started the car. "I should get home," he explained. "It's just that...when I'm there, I can't pretend any more that Sophie's coming back."

"I know," Duncan sympathized. He surprised himself by revealing even more. "After my fiancee was killed, I couldn't bear to be in our home any more. I had to leave."

Mr. Burke smiled slightly. "I wish I could do that," he admitted. "But kids change things."

Kids change things. Oh, yes. Duncan nodded, muttered "Thanks again," and left the car. He paused on the dojo steps to watch Mr. Burke circle the clunky old car in the street.

He entered the foyer and tried the light switch, but power still hadn't been restored to the building. Unable to muster the energy to climb the rope ladder that dangled from the second floor, he made his way to the office. There he lit the oil lamp, unbuttoned his coat, and sank heavily into the desk chair.

He didn't know how he was going to make it through the minutes or hours until Richie called. There was no enemy for him to fight now. Amanda was gone—probably because of him—and nothing he could do would bring her back. Richie was suffering and close to an emotional breakdown—partially because of him—and Duncan wasn't at all sure he had the experience or the resources to help. Damn it, he felt so stupidly inadequate, so ridiculously powerless. Powerless to restore Richie's innocence, powerless to affect Angie's reaction to immortality, powerless to protect either Richie or Angie from the horrors of the Game.

He detected the faint aroma of Amanda's perfume on the rolled-up mats, and longing swept over him. He picked up the desk phone and listened for a moment to the hum of the dial tone. Where are you? he lamented silently. Amanda, love, I need you. I _need _you.

He hung up and rested his head on the desk. Without meaning to, he drifted into an uneasy sleep.

***

Climbing the stairs to his room, Richie's legs felt as heavy as lead. He opened the door and guided Angie through the dark to the sofa. Then he made his way to the desk and switched on the small lamp there. He dropped his backpack and katana on the floor.

"Sit." Angie patted the sofa and Richie sank down beside her. Angie put her head on his chest, and Richie wrapped his arms around her as he slid down into the cushions. A moment later, without quite knowing how it happened, he was stretched out across the full length of the narrow couch, fully entwined in Angie's arms and legs.

He closed his eyes and held her, making a memory rich enough to last for a dozen lifetimes. There was still so much he had to say, but for these few minutes words didn't seem necessary. Their physical contact was comfortingly warm, intimate, and restful. Like two puppies tangled together for a nap, Richie thought sleepily. He yawned.

Angie made a small contented sound, rather like a snore, and Richie chuckled. She did sound like a puppy!

Angie didn't lift her head from his shoulder. "What?" she asked.

"Nothing," Richie assured her. "This is better than sex," he said softly.

"Mmm," she mumbled.

Richie stroked her hair, gently working his fingers through the worst of the tangles. Angie coughed and then sighed again.

Time's up, Richie thought to himself. Back to reality. He tucked Angie's hair away from her face. "Are you OK, Ange?" he asked. "What happened after you ran out of here?"

She sniffed. "Nothing much," she said. "I tried to get home, but I couldn't get through all that commotion. It was scary for a while, when the wind started pushing the fire and smoke around."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was such a jerk."

Angie patted her hand against his chest, but didn't otherwise respond to his apology. "All I could think about was how I wanted to get home and talk to Mom about you, and the earthquake, and the fire, and that little boy who died. And then it occurred to me that she wasn't going to be there."

"I know what you mean." Richie tightened his arm around her back. "Hell, I was even there when Emily died, but I still kept expecting her to come back. Just pick me up after school one day and say 'OK, Richie, it's time to go home.'"

"Yeah, it's like that," Angie whispered. "Like you can't really believe that your world isn't the same anymore."

"I don't think you ever get used to it," Richie said. He put his hand over hers, which was playing with the buttons of his shirt. "Losing the important things, I mean." He felt, rather than saw, Angie nod.

"Angie..." Richie threaded his fingers through hers. "I know you think I'm a few beers short of a sixpack. But I'm not imagining this stuff about immortals. If I don't tell you the rest I'll go crazy for sure."

Angie lifted herself up on one elbow and scrutinized his face. Whatever she saw there seemed to satisfy her. "So tell me," she said.

"Well," Richie said, "immortals don't have any parents. We just sort of show up in a cabbage patch somewhere when we're babies."

Angie laughed and dropped her head back onto Richie's chest. "Oh, Richie, even you must see that that's ridiculous!"

He smiled. "The shrink at the Children's Center would have loved it. Talk about abandonment issues." He shifted onto his side so that he could see Angie's face. "But there are records going back thousands of years, and nobody's ever been able to find an immortal's parents." He slipped his hand inside her jacket and let it rest at her waist. "And no immortal's ever had children. Ever."

"Oh, Richie," Angie said. "How can that be?"

"I haven't got a clue. But Joe can show you the records."

Angie didn't seem convinced.

Richie went on anyway. "Plus, immortals can't get diseases. Or if we do, our bodies destroy them right away. Just like we can bleed, but we don't scar. And we never get old."

Angie was still quiet.

"I know how it sounds, Ange. But in a few years, you'll have other proof. Because I'll never get any older."

Angie removed the arm Richie still had around her waist and sat up. She perched on the edge of the sofa. "Sit up, Richie."

He pulled himself to a seat at the end of the couch. From this position, he couldn't see Angie's face, just the golden glow of the lamp behind her flyaway hair.

She stood and switched on the floor lamp next to the sofa. "Take off your shirt," she instructed.

Puzzled, Richie blinked at her dumbly. Angie sat beside him and began to work at the buttons.

He brushed her hands aside. "No, I've got it," he said. He finished with the buttons and pulled off the shirt. "What?" he asked.

Angie touched the back of his neck. "You have a scar," she said. "Remember the day you showed up at the hospital all bloody? You have a scar on your neck."

Oh. Now he understood. "My neck, Ange. Because that's where immortals are vulnerable. The truth is, the Russian cut me open from here to here." He touched his neck and then fingered a spot just above his left kidney. "Only the neck left a scar."

Angie gazed at him with open disbelief.

"You saw my arm!" Richie protested. He held out his wrist. "No scar!"

"Richie," Angie said sorrowfully. Her hands touched his sides just above the waistband of his jeans and then slipped around to stroke his back. "You have scars here. You have a lot of scars, love."

"Oh, Christ!" Richie shoved her hands away and bolted off the sofa. "That's not the same thing! For God's sake, Angie, that's ancient history! That's long before I even became an immortal. It's got nothing to do with anything!"

He plopped heavily into the desk chair. Hey, great job, Ryan, he thought. The more you say, the less she believes.

Angie came over and leaned against the desk. "I'm just saying that—"

"Stop it!" He pounded the desk. "I'm not stupid! I know you think I'm living in some sick fantasy world!"

Angie took a deep breath. "OK," she said quietly. "Tell me this. If you were born an immortal, how could you have become an immortal later?"

Richie put his hands on the back of his head and clenched his fingers in his short curls. God, how could anyone be so bad at explaining this? It wasn't supposed to be this hard. "Until you die for the first time, you don't know you're immortal. You can get sick or hurt or whatever, just like normal people. You're only different because you don't have parents and you can't have kids. But once you get killed, you never get any older. And you have a quickening that other immortals can feel. That's when you're part of the Game."

He slapped himself in the head. I must be an experiment in artificial stupidity, he thought wryly. That would explain a lot. "Damn, Ange, I could have proved it without any blood. I can prove that I can feel Mac or Amanda nearby, just from their quickenings. And they can feel me."

Angie didn't seem interested in that little piece of information. She walked to the window behind the desk and stared out at the dark street for several seconds. "Someone killed you?" she asked.

"Ha," Richie laughed sardonically. "You'd think I'd remember to mention that part, wouldn't you? But it hardly even mattered. Tessa got shot that night, too, but she didn't come back." He rubbed the thicket of hair at the center of his chest where two bullets had burned through him. "So who the hell cares if I got murdered—for ten minutes?"

"I care!" Angie said. "Why didn't you tell me you got shot that night?"

"I couldn't," Richie said. "Nobody knew but Mac. I couldn't tell the cops I was there, I couldn't tell anybody. And it's not like I could talk to Mac about it." He shook his head, knowing he should be ashamed of his unreasonable resentment and self-pity. Mac wasn't at fault for what happened that night.

He sighed. "It happened. I'm an immortal. Deal with it." The last sentence was directed more at himself than Angie.

Angie turned away from the window and stood behind his chair. She rested her hands on the top of his shoulders.

Richie lifted his head and looked at her. "You know I'm not just making this up, Angie. You saw my arm. And you can look at my heel, where the glass went in—there's no scar there. How could that be a trick? You felt that shock for sure, right? Besides, do you think you imagined that dance I was doing in the street the other day? Anne and Joe and Amanda and Mac, they all knew what it was. They don't think I'm whacked out."

Angie's knees began to wobble. Richie reached out to steady her as she melted to the floor beside his chair.

"Take my shoes and socks off and see for yourself," Richie said. "I don't care."

Angie shook her head.

"Well, look in the wastebasket then!" Still Angie didn't move. Richie shoved the chair away from the desk and picked up the trash can. He emptied its contents onto the desk. "See?" He held up his gory jacket and thrust his hand through the gashes in the leather. "Sword wounds. Blood."

"Stop," Angie implored. "Stop! I believe you." She rested her head against the side of the desk and began to cry. "I believe you, Richie."

Richie dropped to the floor. "I'm sorry, Ange. I'm really, really sorry."

She resisted his effort to pull her into his arms. "Your jacket was all slashed and bloody, but you weren't hurt," she said through her tears.

"Oh." Richie blushed, remembering the humiliating condition he'd been in after taking Chet's quickening. "I should have remembered you saw the blood," he admitted. "But I wasn't...I don't remember a lot of what happened that day." He lifted his shoulders into a shrug that somehow deteriorated into a full-body shiver.

"Oh!" Angie took her own jacket off and wrapped it around Richie's bare torso. "You're cold."

"Hey, I don't need that."

"Please," Angie said. "Please, Richie." She pulled the jacket more tightly around him and leaned into his embrace. "Tell me the rest," she said.

He had to smile at that. This woman knew him entirely too well. "Let's get off the floor, OK?"

Angie nodded and allowed Richie to help her up. She settled back into the sofa and waited.

Richie sat down and folded Angie's jacket over her legs. He hadn't rehearsed this part of the I'm-an-immortal speech, hadn't even thought about it. He wondered if Mac had ever talked to Tessa about sex and quickenings. Hadn't he said something like that earlier today? It was hard for Richie to imagine such a scenario.

Oh, stop stalling, he told himself. "Um...I guess you probably noticed that I was...well, that quickenings are..."

"Sexual," Angie supplied finally.

"Yeah." Richie patted her knee beneath the jacket. "Mac says it's just a side effect, but it's more than that. Sometimes, anyway."

"So...that always happens when you kill another immortal? Or..."

Richie grimaced. "Or what?" he challenged. "Do you think I wanted that?"

"It's not what I think," Angie corrected gently. "You were the one who said you didn't _want _me."

"Oh, shit." Richie leaned forward and rubbed a hand across his face to hide the childish trembling of his lower lip. "I didn't want to take that quickening, Ange. More than anything, I didn't. But I was afraid you'd think I wanted it."

Angie slid over next to him and stroked his hair. "Of course you didn't. That looked awful. That hurt you. No one would want to do that."

Richie took her hand from the place where it rested lightly on his neck. He warmed her cool fingers between his hands. He loved her so much. He loved that she could live in his world, and care for somebody like him, and still be so unaware of the evils all around her.

"Ange, there are lots of people who want that." He laced his fingers through hers and focused on their clasped hands. "I should know. When it comes to sex, I've done pretty much everything there is to do."

Angie gripped his hand. "That's not right," she said fiercely. "That _bastard _did it. You were just a kid. You tried to stop it."

"Not always," Richie confessed. "Sometimes...I just gave up and pretended like it wasn't happening."

"That doesn't make it your fault! He hurt you! He tried to make you so scared you'd never try to get away, but you did! You did get away, Richie."

Tears welled up in Richie's eyes. He had gotten away, he had felt free, just for a moment. But that moment had long since passed. He swallowed his tears and smiled at Angie. "I can't get away anymore, Ange," he explained. "That's just the way it is with us. It's probably a mistake for you to care. Because there's nothing I can do to stop it anymore."

"Oh, no, Richie, it can't—-"

He touched a finger to her lips. "What I'm trying to say is, some people do like that kind of sex. They live for it. They like the hurt, and the power." He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at her, but he kept a firm grip on her hand. "Taking a quickening is like...like...swallowing up somebody else's soul. While it's happening, everything about you, I mean _everything, _belongs to somebody else. And vice versa."

He laughed harshly. "The weird thing is, it's just like what that bastard always wanted. Total control over what I think and feel. It was always as important to him to fuck with my mind as with the rest of me."

"Richie, that's why you need help. So you can see through all those lies."

He opened his eyes and looked at her. Tears ran silently down her cheeks. Tears for him, he marveled. She could still cry for him, after all this. "It can't change anything, Ange. The truth is, the fighting isn't gonna stop. Not when taking a quickening can feel like that." He sighed deeply. "The last thing I ever wanted to do was get it on with another guy. But it didn't make any difference. I still came."

OK, he'd said the worst now. He almost felt relieved. But there was one thing more. He got up and went to the desk, where he picked up Amanda's bloody and tattered blouse. "I had to tell you to go away after the Q 'cause I knew I couldn't control it. Chet was still inside my head. And I didn't want to hurt you any more than I already did."

Angie rose and stood on the other side of the desk. She reached for the blouse, and Richie let it slip into her hands. "So...you and Amanda came here?"

Richie nodded reluctantly, knowing that he was hurting her, just as Mac had said that he would. "She should have just left me on Broadway," he complained. "I would have gotten through it eventually. But once Amanda touched me, it was all over. I was out of control."

"Two nights after we made love, you made love to her."

So calm, Richie thought. She sounds so calm. "I wouldn't call it making love. More like..." No, that word wouldn't be fair to Amanda. "Sex, Ange. Just sex. Just bodies. I know it sounds like the lamest excuse ever, but, honest to God, I couldn't even think straight. And not just because of the quickening—Chet totally freaked me out. I was scared out of my mind."

He looked across the desk at Angie. He was half-dressed, but he might as well have been naked before her. She'd now seen his life stripped down to its barest, ugliest essentials, and yet she was still standing there across from him. The odd thing was, the experience wasn't nearly as degrading as he'd expected it to be. Just humbling. "It feels like he's still there, inside me," he said in a low voice. "I can't shake it."

Angie reached out to touch his cheek.

Embarrassed, Richie shrugged. "Anyway," he said, "I guess I'd say Amanda took care of me like a mom, if that didn't sound so sick." He struggled for words. "What I mean is...it didn't mean anything more to her than that. Feed the kid, burp him, rock him, put him to bed. Amanda's eleven hundred years old, Angie. I'm just an infant to her. It's Mac she loves."

"I would have taken care of you," Angie said softly.

Richie wasn't cold any more. Angie's offer made him feel warm from head to toes. "No way! Not when you didn't know what was happening. Not when I was half-crazy." That didn't seem quite right, so he tried again. "See, I don't know what would have happened if...if it had been _more _than sex. I don't know if I could have handled that. It scared the hell out of me even when I was in my right mind."

Angie's eyes searched his. "So what are we going to do, Richie?"

He plunked to a seat on the desktop. Made it, he thought. We actually made it to the end of the lies. Unbelievable. He managed a smile. "Well, you're going to go home, so your dad doesn't think any worse of me than he already does."

"And then?"

"We take two aspirin and call each other in the morning."

"You said you loved me," Angie reminded him unnecessarily.

Richie swiveled across the desk and pinned Angie between his legs. She sighed quietly as he kissed her. When he pulled away to speak, her hands remained against his chest.

"I do love you, Ange." He kissed her again, nibbling at her lower lip before exploring the soft warmth of her mouth.

He felt Angie's fingers twine in his chest hair and then brush softly down his torso. His tired body surprised him by blasting into full arousal.

"Man!" He broke off the kiss abruptly. Picking tonight to tell Angie that he loved her had been reckless to the point of stupidity—but that was done, and there was no taking it back. He wasn't going to make things even worse by sealing the confession with a physical demonstration of his feelings.

He reached out to smooth Angie's hair. "Just 'cause I love you, Ange, doesn't mean it's a good idea for you to spend your time with somebody who carries a sword and never grows up."

"Richie—"

He touched a finger to her lips. "It's dangerous being around immortals, and I don't exactly have great future prospects anyway. Maybe being just friends would be good. Especially now, since I don't have to lie to you any more."

"Is that what you want?" Angie asked. "To just be friends?"

Richie grinned. "Damn! I thought I kissed better than that."

Angie thumped a finger against his sternum. "Don't joke about us, Richie."

"Ange, you've got to think about it. You want to have kids, right? And I can't. And I'll always be 19. And I'll always be going off to fight somebody. I know you. You won't like it."

Angie scowled.

Richie could see that the implications of his immortality were just starting to sink in. Nothing could really be decided tonight. "Let me take you home," he said. "Your dad will be worried."

Angie sighed. "OK," she said reluctantly. She twisted her hair away from her face. "But don't you think you should get dressed first?"

"Oh, yeah," Richie said. "I am _not _making that mistake again." He rooted around in his bag and came up with a dirty, but intact, flannel shirt. He pulled it on and shooed Angie toward the door.

At the top of the stairs she stopped to announce a change of plan. "Not my house, Richie," she said firmly. "I want to talk to Mr. MacLeod."

***

"He's here," Richie said, shivering. The streetlights outside the dojo were dark, and his flannel shirt offered little protection from the cold night air.

"Should we go in?" Angie asked.

Richie shared her doubts. Unlit, the empty dojo loomed over them like some gargantuan mausoleum. The wind rattled at a broken window pane, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

For God's sake, he chided himself. It's just a power outage. Get a grip.

He hefted the backpack and sword over his shoulder. "We shoulda brought a flashlight. Let me go first." Straining his eyes to spot any signs of quake damage, he led Angie cautiously up the stairs and into the pitch-dark foyer. Together they stumbled out onto the wooden floor.

A huge, batlike figure flapped toward them from the dimly lit office.

"Christ!" Richie jumped back, pushing Angie against the wall.

"Richie?"

"Damn," Richie muttered under his breath. The "bat" was just Mac, still in his trenchcoat, with his arms outspread in welcome.

"Richie!" Duncan said. "I was worried about you."

"You were?" Richie asked. He reached for Angie. "You OK, Ange?"

She mumbled her assent.

"Yes, I was," Duncan said with fond exasperation. "You were supposed to call me."

"Oh." Richie tried to force his frayed nerves into submission. "Sorry, Mac," he said. "Um, I...anyway, I told her the works, but...uh..."

"Never mind," Duncan said. He reached out his hand to touch Angie's elbow. "I'm glad you're here, Angie. You must have questions."

"Yes," she said coolly.

Uh-oh, Richie thought. Trouble.

If Duncan heard the warning in Angie's voice, he gave no sign of it. He ushered Angie and Richie into the office.

Angie settled onto the bench against the wall, and Richie dropped down beside her. His long-empty stomach tightened into a painful knot. This was a mistake. He shouldn't have brought Angie here. Mac had been right earlier, when he said some conversations should wait.

He cleared his throat, preparing to voice his objections.

"What is it you want to know, Angie?" Duncan turned up the wick of the oil lamp before sitting in the desk chair.

"Are you an immortal?" she asked. "Do you heal like Richie does?"

"Yes," Duncan said. "I'll show you if you like."

Angie shook her head.

That's gotta be good, Richie thought. She believes us.

"I'm more than four hundred years old," Duncan volunteered. "But Richie's new at this. You're the first person he's ever told about his immortality."

Angie took Richie's hand and squeezed it. "Why did you tell him that stuff about life being a game and everybody having to kill each other to get ahead?"

Richie chuckled uneasily at Angie's choice of words.

"Not life," Duncan corrected. "The Game only applies to immortals. If I didn't prepare Richie for that, he wouldn't have a chance at survival."

"And that's OK with you? Killing people?"

"Ange!" Richie protested. Neither Angie nor Mac paid him the slightest attention.

"Noooo," Duncan said. "It's not OK. It just is."

"Maybe for you. You didn't have to make Richie that way."

"Angie, geeze!" Richie said. "You've got it all wrong. It's not Mac's fault."

Duncan throttled a laugh. The sound was oddly chilling, catapulting Richie back to an earlier night, also in the dojo, a night when he had been the one who was waiting and worrying. When he should have paid attention to his own unease.

"Back off, Ange," Richie cautioned. He wanted to grab her and run from the building, but he ignored his instincts and stayed. He put an arm around Angie's shoulder in a pretense of relaxation.

"I knew Richie was going to be an immortal the first time I met him," Duncan said. "No one made him that way, Angie. And no one can change it."

"Yeah," Richie chimed in. "And if you're an immortal, you're fair game. That's just the way it is, so you might as well get used to it. Right, Mac?"

Richie's casual assessment of his reality temporarily silenced both Angie and Duncan.

Angie slipped out from under Richie's arm. She leaned across the desk to confront Duncan.

"Richie told me once that you tried to kill him," she said. "But I didn't know what he meant then. Are you going to try again?"

"God, Mac, I'm sorry!" Richie jumped to his feet, anxious to prevent any further escalation of hostilities between the two people he loved most. "I know I shouldn't have told her, Mac, I—"

"Sit down!" Duncan ordered.

Richie obeyed, pulling Angie down beside him.

Duncan leveled his gaze on Angie. "You want to know if we _have _to kill, is that it?"

"Yes," Angie said.

Richie felt sick. He eased up off the bench and flattened himself against the wall, making himself almost invisible to the other two people in the room. He let the wall prop up his weight as he edged toward the door.

Duncan answered Angie after a moment's thought. "I don't know," he said. "I've known immortals who didn't kill, not for centuries. But I was taught that the Game won't end until only one of us is left, and I believe it. If you stay with Richie, you'll see that principle in action."

"Don't you think other immortals matter?" Angie asked. "Aren't they people?"

Richie shook his head.

"Of course we are," Duncan said.

"Then how can you just cut their heads off and leave them in the street?"

Richie closed his eyes and moaned. Already Angie had figured out what his life was really about. They were through before they'd even started.

Duncan phrased his words carefully. "If you mean Czeslaw, he wanted to kill Amanda in revenge for something she did a long time ago. I tried my best to keep the two of them apart and fight Czeslaw myself, but it didn't work out that way." He hesitated. "Amanda was helpless, Angie; she was dead under a pile of bricks. Richie's actions saved her life."

"But if that man could kill Amanda, and you could kill him, and Richie can get in the middle, when's it ever going to stop? What's it all for?" Angie wailed.

Duncan was silent, apparently unwilling to repeat the Rules for Angie's benefit.

"I did it, Angie." Richie spoke up from the shadows by the door. "It wasn't Mac's fault. The guy was a real creep—I told you. He was gonna do me. He was gonna carve Amanda up like a butcher. I'm glad he's dead."

Duncan lifted his head, his face stark in the light of the lamp. Richie saw the sorrow and disappointment etched there. In the end, Mac had wanted Chet to live; he'd wanted Richie to do the honorable thing. Too bad he hadn't lived up to Mac's standards.

"_Was _Chet different from other immortals?" Angie asked softly.

Richie turned his face away so she wouldn't see the tear that spilled immediately down his cheek. Angie knew. She knew he was just as fucked up as Chet.

Duncan left his chair and went to Richie, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Czeslaw was gay. I think Richie saw that as a threat in a way I didn't." He paused. "What matters is that Czeslaw was a killer."

"Like you," Angie said. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Like Richie."

"Yes," Duncan said. "That's what we do."

"And you just left his body there?" Angie asked, her voice rising as she stood to face the two men. "They didn't leave my mom in the rubble. Richie, you didn't let Rajiv rot away like that, and you didn't even know him. He mattered to you."

Richie rubbed an arm beneath his nose and blinked at Angie. Was that all she was worried about? An unburied body? Not the killing, not the fucking, not even the sick pleasure he'd taken in Chet's quickening? Just that immortals generally weren't worth burying?

He released a deep sigh of relief. Angie's distress was finally making sense to him—Angie wasn't used to death, and she'd seen it up close for the first time that week. Of course she couldn't tell the difference between the deaths of immortals and the loss of innocents like her mom and Rajiv.

He stepped away from Duncan to put his arms around Angie. "I'm sorry, Ange," he said. "I'll fix it."

She wrapped her arms around his waist. "It matters, Richie. You matter. You do! More than anybody in the whole world. You can't get killed. You can't just...you can't just disappear."

"I'll go back," he promised. "I'll go back there tonight, Ange, if it'll make you feel better."

"The hell you will!" Duncan thundered. "If you start digging around in those bricks, you'll have a dozen witnesses in street kids alone. The police are sure to find out, and they're not going to believe Czeslaw was beheaded by falling debris."

"I really don't give a shit," Richie responded. If he could make things right with Angie just by burying a body, he sure as hell would. He grabbed his backpack. "C'mon, Ange."

"No!" Duncan interposed himself between Richie and the door.

"I want to do it!" Richie shouted. "You think you can stop me? I can do it!" He slipped beneath Duncan's arm and reached back for Angie.

Duncan moved to block Angie's path. "Can't you see what's going on here? He's going to end up in prison or on the run for the rest of his life just so that he can prove to you that he's human!"

"Let her go, Mac!"

Duncan ignored him. "Do you know what you're heading into?" he asked Angie. "You're going to spend a winter night in a back alley unloading bricks off the body of a man who's been dead for two days. What will you do when you find it? Are you prepared for that? Are you prepared to find his head?"

"I can handle it if Richie can," Angie huffed.

"For God's sake, can't you see that he can't handle that? Can't you see the condition he's in?"

"Damn you!" Richie whipped out his katana and flourished it in front of him. No one, not even Mac, was going to get in his way. "Let her go!"

"Richie!" Duncan yelped. "Put that sword down!" He thrust Angie behind him and sidled out onto the main floor of the dojo.

Something about Duncan's gliding gait made panic flower inside Richie's chest. He wavered and stepped further back into the darkness. What's he doing? he thought frantically. Does he think I'm going to hurt Angie? What's he doing?

Duncan circled around him. "Richie, there's nothing to prove. I'll take care of Chet's body, if that's what you want."

Chet—that was who mattered to Mac. "It's my fault!" Richie said. "I know that's what you think. It's all my fault."

Duncan shook his head and spoke to Richie as if he were a child. "I would have killed him, Richie, you know that. You were just protecting yourself. Protecting all of us. I don't _blame _you—I love you."

Oh, God, no. "You can't!" Richie cried. "You can't! I won't let you! Stay away from me!" He lunged forward, nearly stabbing Duncan through the abdomen. Behind him he heard Angie shriek.

Duncan pivoted, grasped Richie's wrist, and brought it down hard against his knee. The katana slammed into the floor, its cracked ivory handle splintering into a thousand pieces.

Defeated, Richie dropped to his knees. It's over, he thought. I'm glad it's over. He looked up at Duncan with neither hope nor fear. "Do it," he whispered.

"What?" Duncan gasped. "No! Richie, no!"

Richie slumped closer to the floor as the room spun dizzily around him. It was dark here—dark and cold and empty. He'd been here before, and he knew there was no escaping this place. No escaping what was to come. He just couldn't remember how he'd ended up here again. He lifted his head. "Why, Mac?" he asked.

"Richie," Duncan said. His voice was ragged and deep. "Richie." He shrugged off his coat and knelt beside Richie to wrap him in its warmth.

Richie gagged and collapsed onto the floor in a dead faint.

***

  
  
  
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	4. Chapter 4

  
  
  
  
  
  


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Duncan rolled Richie off his shoulder and onto the coverlet of his enormous bed, nearly keeling over himself from sheer fatigue. That last flight of stairs had nearly brought him to his knees. As he stepped away, he felt a muscle pull in his lower back.

"Here's your coat and sword," Angie said quietly from somewhere behind him. "I brought them."

He felt his way toward her in the total darkness of the loft. "This is very sharp. You shouldn't touch it."

Angie sniffed disdainfully and sat down on the bed.

Unsure of what to do for Richie, Duncan went to the kitchen in search of candles. Along the way he banged his knee against the fallen armoire and tripped over jumbled piles of books and broken crockery. With many muttered curses, he finally found three candles and an unbroken bottle of cooking brandy beneath the kitchen sink. He returned to the bed and searched Richie's pockets until he found a book of matches.

"He's been unconscious for a long time," Angie worried aloud.

Duncan lit the candles, stuck them to the nightstand with a bit of melted wax, and leaned over to feel for the pulse in Richie's neck. His skin felt cold, but his pulse was strong.

"He'll be all right, at least physically. There actually are a few benefits to immortality." Duncan tried to smile.

"Huh." Angie examined him by the flickering candlelight. She then surprised Duncan by kicking off her shoes and spooning close to Richie atop the bedcovers.

He nodded to himself. There were some things a woman could do far better than any man. He retreated to the darkness of the leather sofa with the brandy bottle, allowing Richie and Angie their privacy.

The sofa cushions made a whooshing sound as he settled into their embrace. He took a sip of the brandy and consciously tried to relax, hoping his overworked muscles would have time to heal before he was called on to use them again.

But the cessation of physical activity brought him no inner peace. The moment he closed his eyes to rest, he saw again what he had first seen when Richie collapsed before him on the dojo floor. More than just a memory, the events of that long-ago night were now as close, as vivid, and as disturbing as the events of the day. Duncan experienced it all again—the lust to kill that had drawn him to the dojo, the flashing swords, the blood; Richie's questions, his own sardonic words, the kiss.

The kiss. It had meant nothing to him at the time—_nothing. _Just another small cruelty. He knew now what it had meant to Richie. Richie, on his knees before him. My God. He lifted the bottle of brandy and drank deeply.

"Oh!" He heard Angie sit up. "There's someone here!"

Duncan grabbed for his sword. Only a second later did he realize that whoever was climbing the stairs had no immortal signature.

"Duncan? Duncan!"

It was Anne. He put down the katana and went to meet her. The doctor carried a flashlight and her medical bag, and she was panting from exertion.

"How did you get here?" Duncan asked, his voice slurred more by emotion than by drink.

"Joe called me."

"Joe!" Duncan snorted. Of course—Joe had been watching the dojo. He laughed under his breath, remembering the last time the Watcher had intervened to save Richie's life. "That's appropriate!"

"What do you mean?" Anne asked.

Duncan ignored the question.

Angie scooted off the bed, and Anne sat down. She examined Richie quickly by the light of her flashlight. "He's sleeping normally now," she reassured Duncan and Angie. "He must be exhausted. How in the world did you get him up here?"

"Carried him," Duncan said curtly. He knew Anne had also had to make her way up the rope ladder and three unlit flights of stairs. He just couldn't care about that now.

"Joe told me what he saw downstairs," Anne said. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"

"No," Duncan said. "I don't want to tell you." The connections between the dark quickening, Czeslaw, and Richie's abuser were too labyrinthine and too sickeningly intimate for him to fully understand. But he knew such things belonged within the clan.

Anne looked at Angie, who crossed her arms and shook her head, refusing to speak. Grateful for her support, Duncan reached out and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Hmm." Anne pondered. "When was the last time Richie had a real meal? Or a good night's sleep?"

"This isn't about sleep, for God's sake!"

"What is it about, Duncan? Why are you so angry?"

He laughed. "Because I didn't know! Joe saw it—he could have told me. He told me what's in his files, for God's sake! He told me about Mako, he told me about Czeslaw, he even told me his damnedwar stories, but he never bothered to tell me what I did! What _I _did!"

Anne put a hand on his arm. "Did you have a flashback, Duncan?" she asked.

He rubbed a hand across his face and suppressed an urge to laugh again. "I have flashbacks all the time, Anne. Normally they don't come as a surprise to me."

"I tried to tell you, Duncan—you're suffering, too."

"Right," he said sarcastically, dismissing Anne's concern. "What about Richie?"

The doctor sighed. "I'd guess he had a flashback, possibly brought on by the extreme stress he's been under. These symptoms are serious, Duncan. Richie needs medical treatment."

"Medicine isn't the answer."

"Duncan," Anne contradicted, "PTSD isn't a mood that you can talk Richie out of in a day or a week. He needs professional help, including medication and therapy. And he shouldn't be carrying a weapon."

Duncan did laugh then.

"I'm not joking!" Anne said. "And it's not just because Richie pulled his sword on you. He's even more of a danger to himself."

Duncan shook his head, all self-doubts overridden by his need to care for his own son in the way only a family member and an immortal could. "Richie's problems are my responsibility," he said. "I appreciate your help, but I think you should go now."

"Richie needs you to be his father, not his therapist."

"The world I grew up in didn't have therapists," Duncan said. "I may not have many qualifications for the job, Anne, but I do have one advantage no psychiatrist in Seattle can match—Richie doesn't have to lie to me."

"I can help," Angie interrupted. "I know what PTSD is."

Anne seemed to recognize that she couldn't stand against a coalition of Angie and Duncan. "All right," she said, reaching into her medical bag to pull out three paperback books. She handed them to Duncan. "The body and the mind aren't separate things," she said, "even for immortals. If you're going to do this alone, you'd better know what you're getting into."

Unable to see the titles in the dark, Duncan accepted the books with a heavy heart. "Thank you," he said.

"See that he eats and drinks something as soon as he wakes up. And don't leave him alone."

"We won't," Angie promised.

"I've been taking care of people for a long time," Duncan said. "I can take care of Richie."

"I hope so, Duncan." Anne snapped her bag shut and headed for the door. "You have my number if you need anything."

"Thank you for your help," he repeated. Ordinarily, he would have walked the doctor down the stairs whether she wanted his company or not, but not tonight. He turned to Angie, who sat back down on the bed and took Richie's hand.

She looked up at him. "You really do love him, don't you?"

"Yes," Duncan said. "Hard as that may be to believe."

"That's all I wanted to know."

He chuckled wearily. "We could all save ourselves a lot of trouble if we'd just stop trying to prove that."

"Yeah," Angie agreed. "Anyway, I can stay tonight, but tomorrow I have to go home. Will you be here?"

"Yes." Duncan pulled his hair back and twisted it into a knot. "Have you called your father?" he asked.

"Not yet," Angie admitted.

He snorted in paternal rage and reached for the cell phone in his pocket. "Call your father!"

***

Mr. Burke arrived to take Angie home around midnight. By then Duncan had managed a couple hours of fitful sleep on the sofa while Angie watched over Richie. After the Burkes departed, he pulled a chair beside the bed and tried to skim Anne's books by candlelight. When the winter sun finally peeked its head above the horizon, he blew out the sputtering candles on the nightstand and continued to read.

He looked up when he heard Richie turn over, expecting just another nightmare. This time, though, Richie's eyes opened and he gazed up at the tapestry that hung over Duncan's bed.

"Shit," Richie said softly.

Duncan closed his book. "Good morning to you, too."

Startled, Richie sat up and straightened his rumpled shirt. He seemed bewildered. "Aw, damn. I hate waking up in strange beds."

Waking up in _my _bed, Duncan thought with a sudden, sick awareness. Is that what Richie expects from me? He pushed back in his chair. Stop it! he told himself. These books are making you paranoid with all their horrific stories. Richie was just joking about his one-night stands. Or perhaps he meant he'd hated moving around so much as a child.

At any rate, Richie was looking at him oddly. "Sorry I kicked you out of your own bed."

"Not a problem," he replied, trying to sound nonchalant. "How're you feeling?"

Richie swung his feet over the side of the bed and then paused to consider the question. He looked up, confused. "Shit. I don't remember. Was I dead?" His voice rose quickly. "Mac, I don't remember!"

"Relax, Rich," Duncan soothed. "Everything's OK."

"I gotta go!" Richie took off for the bathroom.

Duncan stood, wavering between following Richie and giving him some space. He was still standing beside the bed when Richie reappeared. "Were you sick?" he asked.

"Where's Angie?" Richie said in response.

"Her father picked her up and took her home. I'm sure she'll call later."

"She's OK?" Richie prodded.

"She's fine, Rich. I told you, everything's fine."

"But, Mac, what happened last night?" Richie's anxiety appeared to grow with every question.

"I'll tell you about it," Duncan said, "but you have to eat first. Otherwise, no deal."

Richie glowered. He looked over at the devastated kitchen. "Eat what?" he challenged.

Duncan hooked an arm around Richie's neck. "I'll find something," he promised. He directed Richie to a seat next to the kitchen island and placed a large glass of rather murky tap water in front of him. "Drink all of this."

While Richie drank, Duncan searched through the mess that had formerly been his pantry. Unfortunately, he didn't care for most canned or dry goods, and the few he did keep around weren't foods that Richie was likely to enjoy for breakfast. He set aside vichyssoise, caviar, and cannellini.

He sighed and looked up at Richie, whose head was bent pensively over his glass. "How do you feel about yams?" he asked. "I have oatmeal, but not even a Scotsman would eat that uncooked."

"No creamed corn or tunafish?" Richie joked half-heartedly. "That's un-American."

"True. How about caviar and crackers?"

"What I really need is a cigarette."

"Yams it is," Duncan said. "And, by the way, you're off cigarettes, as of now."

Richie's head jerked up. "What?"

"You're in training," Duncan said firmly. "I won't allow it." He cranked the can opener around two of the cans, and handed the yams and a fork to Richie. "Start eating."

"Mac..."

To Duncan's consternation, Richie seemed near tears. He had the disturbing feeling that Richie was actually_afraid _to eat.

"Hey, buddy," he said. "You're dehydrated and half-starved. I just want you to take care of the basics first, OK? Everything's all right, but you have to eat. Doctor's orders."

Richie speared a chunk of sweet potato and placed it in his mouth.

Duncan watched as he chewed and swallowed. "Good. Keep going."

Richie tossed the fork aside angrily. It clattered into the stainless steel sink. "What did I do? Mac, please, you don't know what it's like to not even remember!"

Duncan set his own can aside. "Wrong, Rich," he said somberly. "I do. Because last night I remembered something I didn't even know I'd done, and it scares the hell out of me to think there might be other things I've completely forgotten."

Richie's eyes were wide. He swallowed nervously.

The talk about flashbacks and forgetting was hitting too close to home, Duncan realized. Not a good place to start. He backtracked. "Do you remember talking to Angie yesterday?"

Richie nodded.

"OK, let's start there." Duncan began to describe what he knew of the evening before, beginning with Richie and Angie's entry into the dojo, Angie's questions, the argument over disposal of Czeslaw's body, and the confrontation on the dojo floor. Richie listened intently.

"When you dropped to the floor, it all came back to me," Duncan said. "Before, I had fragmented memories of the dark quickening in general and of our fight in particular, but this was different. Much different. I remembered it all, in living color. Every word, yours and mine. And the kiss."

Richie didn't say anything.

"At any rate, that's when you passed out," Duncan said quietly. "Rich, I'm so sorry. If I'd remembered before, I might have understood...more...and sooner. I don't know if it makes any difference to you, but even then, even when I was that other person, kissing you wasn't...it was cruel. But it wasn't a prelude to rape. It was never that."

Richie stared into his water glass for a painfully long moment.

"Yeah," he said finally. "I guess I knew that. I was just kinda spooked yesterday, what with the Q and all." He sighed. "It seems like all anybody wants to talk about anymore is Chet and me and the bastard and what we did. It gives me the creeps. How'm I supposed to forget about it, when that's all you talk about?"

Duncan began to object, but Richie ignored his protest. "Never mind." He smiled sheepishly. "The truth is, what really freaked me out was your damned coat."

"My coat?" Duncan blinked, not understanding the connection. "You mean my sword?"

Richie shook his head, leaned over to retrieve his fork from the sink, and started mushing the contents of his can. "Don't ask, Mac, OK?"

Duncan stiffened, dread quick-freezing his vital organs in his chest. They were very close to the truth now. He couldn't let Richie see how much that terrified him. Not if, as he had boldly proclaimed to Anne, he was prepared to see Richie through this.

"Richie, I have to ask—"

"I mean, geeze, Mac, isn't it bad enough I spent the last few days hitting you, crying on you, and throwing up on you? I haven't cried so much since I was five. I don't like it. I want it to stop."

"I understand that," Duncan said. "But you had good reason, Rich. It's nothing to be embarrassed about. I've cried in Connor's arms. I've fallen apart in Darius's chambers. I've let Tessa kiss away my nightmares."

"I just want to get things back under control, that's all I'm saying."

"Pretending the feelings aren't there isn't control—it's acting. Not talking about what happened gets us nowhere." Duncan cleared his throat. "You can talk to me, Rich. About anything. We already covered sex, remember? We can talk about this."

Richie swallowed a forkful of yams and shook his head. Suddenly he seemed to be the one who was calm and in charge. "Not this kinda stuff, Mac. You're caviar and crackers. Bach. Rodin," he said, giving the name an exaggerated French pronunciation. "How'm I supposed to talk about this right? There's no way."

"What do you mean, 'talk about it right'?"

Richie waved his fork. "Like Anne, you know? She doesn't say 'Do you shoot up?' She says 'Have you ever used nonprescribed, self-injected drugs?'" He smiled. "Like that. I don't know how to say this stuff like that. I know there's words, but I don't know what they are."

"You're worried I might be offended by your vocabulary?" Duncan asked, incredulous. He leaned across the island, his face inches from Richie's. "For God's sake! What _happened _to you was the obscenity. I don't give a fuck what words you use!"

Richie smiled, and Duncan's temper kicked in. "I've been in a hundred wars, fought with soldiers all over the world, crossed the oceans with sailors whose swearing could melt an iceberg. I speak a dozen languages well and another dozen poorly! Do you seriously believe you're better acquainted with obscenities than I am?"

Richie cocked his head and inspected Duncan coolly. "You know what a blanket party is?"

Duncan gripped the edge of the counter. He did know. "Yes," he said. "It's prison slang."

Richie rubbed a thumb around the rim of his can. Blood sprang up as the sharp edge bit into his flesh. Duncan winced.

"Yeah. I guess that's where he picked it up," Richie said. He took a long drink of water. "Anyway, that's how I lost my virginity. How 'bout you?"

Appalled, Duncan lowered his head and stared dumbfounded into the sink. He wanted to kick the stool out from under Richie. He wanted to lift him by the scruff of his neck and shake him hard. He understood that this was the emotional distancing that Anne had described to him, but he had no notion of how to handle it. The last thing he felt was "distant."

Richie apparently concluded that further explanation was in order. "That's why I kinda lose it when people try to cover up my head," he apologized. "A lot of the fucking I don't even remember after the first couple times, but that part...I can't stand that part."

Duncan took a deep breath. "This man—he was a criminal? Were you in detention, Rich?"

"I should have been so lucky," Richie said without a trace of irony. "Nah, he told me he was a cop. 'Corrections officer,' I guess—like a guard. I remember, 'cause the first time he came into my room he put his gun on the chair where I could see it." He smiled grimly. "I guess that was the idea."

"Who was this man, Richie? Was he your foster father?"

Richie shook his head. "No. My fosters had to go out of town for a while. Somebody was sick. I forget who."

"And they left you with this man?"

Richie nodded.

"This man, who trapped you in a blanket while he raped you." Duncan had witnessed such attacks himself—in an English prison and aboard one loathsome ship. He could still hear the screams of those men. And Richie had been twelve. Twelve. The word reverberated in his brain.

He clutched at his hair. "Richie, a blanket party is usually a gang rape, isn't it? Was there more than one man?"

"No," Richie said softly. His eyes were wet. "Not usually. No."

"But sometimes?" Duncan asked. "Sometimes there was?" He rested a hand on Richie's bowed head. "It's all right," he said gently. "Tell me now, and you won't have to tell me again."

"She was there sometimes," Richie said vaguely. His eyes focused on some far-off vignette that Duncan couldn't see.

A moment later Richie shook his head and returned to the present. He smiled at Duncan's evident confusion. "She liked to watch. My first Watcher. Sometimes she held the blanket."

Shock riveted Duncan to the floor.

"Hey, it's all right," Richie said quickly. "She wasn't that bad. She never did anything more than feel me up. No big deal."

A red curtain of rage rippled across Duncan's field of vision. Adrenaline poured through his body and set his heart racing. He clenched his fists. Someday, he told himself. Not today. Anger isn't going to help today.

He looked at Richie. "If you can sit there, and tell me that a man abused you, and a woman watched it and even participated in it, and it's no big deal, then you are NOT EVEN CLOSE TO BEING ALL RIGHT!"

One corner of Richie's mouth quirked up in a smile. "But I must be better than before, 'cause you're OK with yelling at me now."

Duncan laughed, an explosive release of emotion. But he was by no means prepared to let Richie off the hook. He simply didn't know if either of them could go through this again. "Who else, Richie? Who else was there? Who else knew about it?"

"Nobody."

Duncan knew instantly that he was lying. "Who, Richie?"

"I don't know!" Richie snapped.

"You know something."

Richie shook his head. "I can't remember. Not for sure." He twisted off his stool and walked over to the window, where he shoved his hands into his pockets and contemplated the street.

Duncan waited, feigning patience.

When Richie turned to face him a few moments later, he was calm again. He leaned against the back of the leather sofa and folded his arms across his chest. "See, the last time," he said, taking a breath, "the last time I think there was three guys. Maybe two; I'm not sure. I couldn't see them. I could hardly breathe, they covered me up so tight. But I know there was at least one guy besides the bastard, 'cause he took me to the hospital. He was afraid I was gonna bleed to death, and then they'd all be in deep shit."

Duncan swallowed hard. "You must have seen that man, then," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Do you know who he was?"

"I didn't see him." Richie shrugged helplessly. "He just let me out of the car at the door. I don't remember seeing him, Mac."

Duncan stepped close and put a hand on Richie's shoulder. "It's all right. Maybe you will someday."

"Maybe I couldn't _see _them," Richie blurted, "but I could hear them laughing and grunting."

Duncan's world began to spin. He wanted to ask Richie to stop. This was too much. Anne was right. This was far too much.

"And I could feel them," Richie added unnecessarily. His face had the translucent, other-worldly quality that Duncan had noticed on the day after Richie took Czeslaw's quickening. "You wouldn't believe the stuff they did, Mac. I wanted to die. I wanted to die so bad. It was worse than the fucking. I thought that was bad, but this was...this was..."

"There isn't any word, Richie," Duncan said. "There's no word foul enough, not in any language."

"I _know _there's words," Richie insisted. "I just don't know what they are. Do you? Do you know what I mean, Mac?"

It seemed to be very important to him that Duncan understand—even more important than it was rapidly becoming to Duncan that he not hear the exact ways in which his child had been tortured and used. "I can imagine, Richie," Duncan said. "Unfortunately, I've lived long enough that I can imagine."

Richie's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "That's what I think sometimes—that I just imagined it. But how could I? I'd never even kissed a girl, Mac. How could I dream up that stuff?"

Not knowing whether it was a blessing or a curse, Duncan relieved Richie of that particular doubt. "It really happened, Richie. You didn't imagine it. I know that, Angie knows that, Anne knows that. It was real. It's on the record. It's true." He opened his arms, and Richie fell into them.

"You believe me!" Richie said joyfully.

"Yes, Rich," Duncan mourned. "I believe you."

***

Richie soon pulled out of the embrace. Mac's belief in him was heartening; Mac's sympathy was downright embarrassing. He laughed and warded Duncan off with a wave of his hands. "Um, I better call Angie," he said with a grin. "I better, uh...I'll use the phone in the office." He trotted toward the stairs.

"Richie!" Duncan called after him.

He stopped and turned around. For a moment he thought Mac might actually forbid him to leave. Relief and concern warred over the planes of the Highlander's face.

Then Duncan shrugged and sighed wearily, indulgently. "Go ahead," he said. "I'll call Willa and let her know where you are." He pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open. "I'll be down in a minute, so _don't go out_without me."

"Yeah, yeah," Richie promised. He escaped from the loft, dashed down the stairs, and dropped lightly from the rope ladder onto the dojo floor, feeling better than he had in days, weeks, months. For the first time he could ever remember, he had no important secrets to hide from either Mac or Angie. Life was good. He grinned. He'd never been very big on the ritual of confession, but, God, it felt great. Hell, it felt incredible!

He picked up the phone in the office and dialed Angie's number. She answered on the second ring, confirming his sense that all was right with the world. He responded effusively to her worried questions about his well-being.

"Look," he said, smiling into the phone. "Just take care of your dad and Alan—don't worry about me. Mac's acting like a mother bear. He'd probably chase you up a tree if you did come over here."

Angie laughed. "OK. But let's meet tonight at the store, around eight o'clock, OK? We need to talk."

"I know," Richie said. He wrapped the telephone cord around his fingers. Angie knew the truth now, but that didn't mean she'd want to live with it. "I'll be there. Just think about what I told you last night."

"I'm thinking about _you, _Richie."

He turned his back to the window that looked out onto the dojo floor. "I just want you to do the right thing for you. That's all that matters."

"No, it's not!"

"Yeah, OK," he acknowledged, "but nothing short of a beheading can hurt me. That's what I mean."

"Arrgh!" Clearly frustrated, Angie gave up on the phone conversation. "I have to go. We'll talk tonight. And say hi to the bear, OK?"

"OK. Later." Richie hung up the phone and took a second to pull his thoughts together. He heard Duncan cross the dojo floor and open the office door to check on him.

Richie turned to greet him. "Angie says hi," he said cheerily.

The man who faced him wasn't Duncan—wasn't even an immortal. He was a brown-haired, brown-eyed man of about 45, totally unremarkable except for a fuzzy blue tattoo on the inside of his right wrist. The tattoo didn't grab Richie's attention for long; the pistol aimed at his heart was far more compelling. Those things must be standard Watcher issue, he thought. Great.

"On the floor," the man said.

Nothing could have strengthened Richie's resistance more. "Not a chance."

The Watcher's hands wobbled, as did his voice. "This is a citizen's arrest! I know how to use this gun. Get down on the floor!"

"What're you arresting me for, carrying a concealed weapon?"

"Murder, you worthless punk!" the man spat. "You're a murderer! A murderer, and a bigot, and a thief, and you stole the quickening of the best, the _best_..."

"Best what?" Richie was fed up with being told he was worthless by men who were older, stronger, richer, and better educated than he would ever be. "Best queer? I guess that makes you one of them, huh? Gotta pull a gun on a kid to get what you want?"

"Ah!" The man squeezed his eyes shut and fired. The shot went wild but very nearly caught Richie's right leg.

He cursed and jumped back behind the desk. "You're supposed to know that can't kill me!" Out of the corner of his eye he saw Duncan pounce onto the dojo floor from the top of the rope ladder.

Again the man raised the gun. "I'm not here to kill you. I just want to see you pay. If the cops are too busy to take you in, then I'll have to do it for them."

"You'll have to shoot both of us, then," Duncan stated calmly from the office door. "Better start with me."

The man reeled to face him, his aim going directly to Duncan's sternum. Immediately Richie sidled closer to the Watcher. Duncan warned him off with a quick shake of the head.

"That's right," Duncan encouraged the stranger who had him in his sights. He pointed to his chest. "You'll have to hit the heart on the first try. That's the only way to keep me down. Then you'll have to do it again with Richie. He probably won't be standing still. But if you make the shot, you'll have a minute or two to tie us both up."

"Stay out of this! This isn't your fight!"

Richie laughed. Life was getting more bizarre by the minute.

"The Rules don't apply here," Duncan said, bemused. "You know that."

"You say you fight for the right! And then you broke the Rules. You teamed up on him, three on one! He never had a chance!"

Richie wasn't entirely sure what the man was talking about, but Duncan seemed to know. "You must not have been watching very closely," Duncan said. "Or maybe you didn't listen when Joe told you what happened. Every fight that day was Czeslaw's choice. He didn't have to fight Richie. He could have left before I arrived. And he could have finished his fight with me before he took on Amanda. I wish to God he had."

The Watcher shook his head. "You set him up. All he wanted was a fair fight with the bitch who destroyed his family, and you set him up so your own juvenile delinquent could get an important quickening!"

Infuriated, Richie leaped forward and tackled the man at the knees. The Watcher fell hard, clearly unaccustomed to hand-to-hand combat. Duncan wrested the gun from his hands with ease.

"What do we do with him, Mac?"

Duncan stashed the pistol inside his coat. "Tie him up and call Joe."

Richie hauled the man to his feet and muscled him into the desk chair. Duncan went off to the utility closet in search of duct tape.

Richie did the honors while Duncan held the man in place with nothing more than a glare. Once it was obvious that the two immortals weren't going to kill him, the Watcher's anger resurfaced. "You'd better worry about your own skins," he gloated. "I've been to the police. They have the names of witnesses. They know all about you. They know where Czeslaw's body is." He looked up at Richie. "And your sword, Ryan. You're going up for murder. You're going to be in prison for a very long time."

"Mac!"

Duncan's face was stony. "Just one piece across the mouth, Rich. We want him to be able to breathe."

Richie slapped a piece of tape across the man's mouth and followed Duncan out of the office. Duncan promptly pulled the door shut behind them.

Stunned, Richie clasped his hands at the back of his neck and gazed up at the ceiling. "Mac, I can't go to prison. I can't. You know why. You'll have to kill me first."

"Don't talk like that!" Duncan grabbed Richie's arms and forced them down by his side. "Nothing's happened. We don't know that any of what he said is true."

"I'll have to leave," Richie said. He put his hand over his mouth. "I'll have to tell Angie I have to leave." He laughed. "Have I got great timing or what?"

"Richie!" Duncan shook him. "Stop it! I can't do this alone."

"Do what?" he asked. "What is there to do?"

"Go upstairs," Duncan ordered. "I laid out a coat for you on my bed. Put it on. Then get your backpack and my duffel bag and get back down here. Go!"

They were going to run. Just the other day, running had been the only thing that Richie could think about; now it seemed like the end of everything that mattered to him. Nevertheless, he panted up the stairs and blundered into the loft. He had to think a minute before the heavy winter coat spread over the bed reminded him of Duncan's instructions. He shrugged into its fur-lined folds and then shouldered his backpack. He searched for several long minutes before finding Duncan's duffel bag in the bathroom. Worried that he had been gone too long, he hustled down the stairs in record time.

Duncan was on the cell phone. "Three hundred," he growled. "That's fair for the risk. But only if you're successful. You'll have to do it _now._" He listened briefly. "You'll be paid—if you do the job right." Another pause, and then Duncan smiled. "I'll be there," he said, and he closed the connection.

"What was that?" Richie asked. He dropped the two bags on the floor.

"The clean-up crew," Duncan answered. "I talked to Joe. He's checking out Nilsson's story."

"Nilsson? That's Chet's Watcher?"

"Ex-Watcher, yes."

"What's the clean-up crew?"

"Do you remember what we were arguing about last night? Well, they're going to do what Angie wanted."

"You're gonna dig him up? In broad daylight?"

"They'll never make a charge stick without a body."

"Christ, Mac, that's crazy! We've gotta get outta here!"

Duncan's cell phone rang. "Joe?" He listened, his face darkening by the minute. "_Damnation_." He hesitated, apparently trying to restrain his reaction for Richie's sake, and then burst into several long sentences of undoubtedly obscene Gaelic.

Richie winced.

Duncan rang off. "It's bad, Rich. Nilsson did go to the police with an account of the fight, and he fingered you. He even rounded up the names of some street kids who could serve as witnesses."

"Fuck!"

"That's one way of putting it." Duncan sighed. "Take the bags out to the car and then bring the T-Bird around to the front door, as close as you can manage. We'll have to take Nilsson with us, in case the police show up here."

"Why aren't they here already?"

"It must not have been a very convincing story—two men fighting with swords in a back alley for the entertainment of some homeless kids. Or maybe the police just haven't had a chance to check out Nilsson's story yet, what with all the rescue operations still going on. Who knows? Just bring the car around while I get Nilsson."

"I need a sword," Richie pointed out. "I can't go anywhere without a sword." Shards of his former katana still littered the dojo floor.

Unaccountably, Duncan avoided his eyes. "I'll bring one for you. If we're caught, you shouldn't be armed."

Richie couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You're not giving me a sword?"

"Go get the car, Richie. We don't have much time."

"Three's your max, huh?" Richie was mad at himself for counting on something so fundamental. "Hey, no problem, Mac. Maybe I could pawn the coat for a good switchblade."

"Damn it!" Duncan said, turning on him in anger. "You pulled a sword on me last night! Before that, you walked into a fight with Czeslaw you had no business taking on. If I give you another sword, I want to be damn well sure you know what you're doing with it!"

"It's too cold for shish kebabs on the grill, so I'll probably just be protecting my head," Richie sniped. "Does that work for you?"

Duncan grabbed the front of Richie's coat and shook him. "You asked me to take your head!" he shouted, the muscles in his jaw twitching. "You wanted to die!"

Richie shoved him away, furious that Mac would use against him an incident that was so clearly beyond his control.

"You wanted to _die, _Richie," Duncan concluded. "Don't ask me to make that easier for you. I won't do it."

"If I want to die, all I gotta do is walk out that door without a sword."

Duncan's laser-like glare burned a path through Richie. Realizing he had stepped over the line, Richie said no more. No one in their right mind antagonized Mac when he had that look in his eye.

He tried not to squirm as Duncan circled around him, openly appraising him for signs of weakness. He felt like a butterfly pinned to a board.

Several long seconds later, Duncan pulled some keys from his pocket and went to an artfully concealed storage bin hidden in the wall behind the exercise bars. Richie sighed in relief—apparently he had passed the test.

Duncan unlocked the cabinet and extracted an exceptionally fine katana with an intricately carved ivory handle. Richie waited, knowing how ritualistic Mac could be when it came to conferring swords on other immortals. Strangely, this time Mac didn't bow or offer the sword in the traditional, formal presentation. Instead he kept the katana close to his side and again focused that unnerving stare on Richie.

"Swear," Duncan said, his voice strangling. "You'll never use this sword to hurt yourself, directly or indirectly, including entering any fight that you could avoid." He cleared his throat, but his voice was still rough. "Swear it. Swear it on...on..." He lifted the katana and drew the blade down and through the flesh of his left arm in a gesture uncannily similar to the one Richie had used to demonstrate his healing powers to Angie.

Richie grimaced and looked away.

"On your father's blood," Duncan hissed. He thrust the sword into Richie's hands. "Swear it!"

"Mac!" Richie protested. "I swear!"

Duncan swiped his right hand across his bloody left palm and then captured Richie's face between his hands. His powerful fingers gripped behind Richie's ears; his thumbs pressed painfully into the jawbone. "On your father's blood," he insisted.

"On your blood, Mac. I promise." Richie had never sworn an oath by anything that had any real meaning to him. This one shook him. Duncan's intensity was frightening.

"If you break your word, I'll never trust you again." Duncan wiped his bloody fingers down Richie's cheeks and dropped his hands.

Hastily Richie stowed the katana in the copious folds of his new coat. "I won't let you down, Mac."

Duncan turned away. "Just get the car, Richie," he said wearily. "Please."

***

Duncan drove toward Capitol Hill while Richie sat in the back seat of the T-Bird, keeping a wary eye on the hostage Watcher. The December morning was cold and overcast. Gusts of wind battered against the cloth top of the Thunderbird, intermittently spitting sleet across the windshield. Not for the first time, Duncan wondered why he hadn't bothered to find a winter-friendly car since Tessa's death.

Little had changed on Broadway Avenue in the last few days. A handful of shops were open, but pedestrians were still scarce. Duncan cruised past the remains of Draco's Bar, then circled the block and parked on a side street that afforded a partial view of the alley.

"What's the plan?" Richie asked.

"We wait," Duncan said. "If Harry gets here first, we might...maybe we'll get out of this." He turned and hooked an arm over the car seat. "If he doesn't, Rich, we'll start somewhere else." He didn't mention Angie. Probably Nilsson already knew about her, but there was no point in providing him with any more information to use against Richie.

Not, Duncan reflected, that he was going to get the chance.

Richie nodded and glanced out his window. "You got any money, Mac? I'm starving."

It seemed like an odd request, given the circumstances, but at least Richie had regained his appetite. Duncan dug in his pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. "Stay far away from Draco's," he warned.

"Just the 7-11," Richie explained. "Back in ten."

Duncan watched Richie's back until he slipped around a corner and disappeared. He didn't breathe easily again until Richie was back in view, carrying breakfast. The sight of two large, steaming coffees made up for most of his worry.

Richie climbed in the back. He handed Duncan his coffee and a small bag that contained a donut and some sort of pastry wrapped around a dried-up piece of ham. Duncan didn't complain when he saw what Richie had selected for himself—an extra-long hot dog.

Richie wolfed down his breakfast and then took his coffee outside the car. Duncan ate at a more leisurely pace, keeping one eye on the man in the back seat and the other on the alleyway. When he finished, he brushed crumbs off his coat and turned to Nilsson, whose hands were bound in front of him. "I doubt you're faster than me at the best of times," he said. "Don't try running with your hands tied."

The man stared back at him blankly, giving no indication of acquiescence. Duncan shrugged and left the car to stretch.

Richie was leaning against the dented car door with a cigarette clenched between his teeth. His coat collar was pulled up high, protecting his neck, but not his closely shorn head, from the cold drizzle. His ungloved hands clasped the coffee cup for warmth.

Duncan frowned. "I see there's no point in asking for my change."

Richie took a long drag on the cigarette before turning unapologetic eyes on Duncan. "I need it, Mac," he said.

"What is it you think those things can do for you?"

"They can't hurt me, can they? What difference does it make?"

This was not a personal rejection, Duncan told himself. After all, Richie hadn't sworn to give up smoking. "It's your choice," he said.

"My life's falling apart! What the hell do I ca—"

"Quiet!" Duncan hushed Richie with a quick, chopping gesture. A military-style truck was rumbling down Broadway Avenue. Brakes screeched as it pulled to a stop in front of Draco's. A dozen or so men jumped out of the back and began rigging yellow crime-scene tape across the alleyway.

The cigarette dropped from Richie's fingers. "Oh, shit," he agonized. "Oh, Mac, damn it, it's all over."

Duncan opened the car door and tried to force Richie inside. There was no time now to dwell on what was lost. They had to get out of sight and as far away from Seattle as possible.

Richie resisted the pressure of Duncan's hand. He peered down the street. "Uh, Mac..." He sounded puzzled. "You know that guy?"

"What?" Duncan turned on his heel, fearing a high-speed chase might soon be called for. But he hesitated. The man down the street did look familiar, even if his uniform did not. And he was waving, not beckoning toward a suspected felon.

Duncan grinned. "It's Harry, Rich! Not the police. Harry!"

Richie scowled, but Duncan noted the spark of hope that leapt up in his eyes. "Who the hell is this Harry, anyway?"

"He's good news, Rich. Good news! You stay with Nilsson while I go talk to him."

Duncan hurried toward the bar, inspecting the military vehicle quickly as he passed. It certainly appeared to be one of the National Guard trucks that were currently in use all over town. Even Harry's camouflage jacket looked genuine.

He greeted the little man with a scolding. "Did you have to steal the clothes off their backs, Harry?"

Harry grinned, a gold tooth glinting in his wizened face. He lifted his cap off his forehead. "Didn't steal nothin', MacLeod. I bought it. The dealer threw in the rags for free."

"Uh huh."

Harry smiled. "Well, OK, you're paying for it, if you want to get technical." Finished with the pleasantries, he got down to business. "You know where the goods are buried? It'd speed things up if we knew where we was digging."

Duncan stepped over the police tape—not inquiring about its source—and surveyed the waist-high bricks that filled the alley. "Somewhere in the far corner. Toward the left, I think."

Harry pointed his men in the right direction. "You oughta put some distance between yourself and this place," he said. "Pay the bill and get out of here."

A sensible if rather self-serving suggestion, but Duncan couldn't bring himself to take the advice. He needed to know the minute this mission was successful—or unsuccessful. "No. I'll be down the street. Let me know when you find the body."

Harry lifted one shoulder. "It's your head. I just hope you have time to write my check before the cops show up."

"If they get the body, there won't be any check."

Harry nodded and turned back to work. "Pick up the pace, boys! I'm gonna retire on this one."

Duncan plodded back to the car, subdued by Harry's cheerful pragmatism. The "goods"—the body—could have been him. Or Richie, or Amanda. He wondered how many people were mourning for Czeslaw now. More than just his Watcher, he felt sure.

Joe Dawson's black sedan pulled up behind the Thunderbird as Duncan approached. Joe slowly dragged himself from the car, shivering as the wind puffed out his overcoat. "I'm sorry about all this, Mac."

Duncan reminded himself that Joe's Watcher connections had probably saved Amanda's life. Not to mention that Joe had kept watch over Richie the entire night after he took Czeslaw's quickening. So who was he to judge Joe or his occupation? "It's not your fault," he said. "What will the Watchers do with Nilsson?"

Joe leaned on his cane. His tone was melancholy. "He shouldn't be causing any more problems."

Duncan knew Nilsson's likely fate. He didn't wish to see the man dead, but he had to be kept quiet somehow. Clearly Nilsson had no intention of keeping the Watchers' secrets any longer. That would matter far more to the organization than any threat he posed to Richie.

"Did you get any more details on what he told the police?" Duncan asked. Concocting a believable statement that matched the physical evidence must have been difficult. If Nilsson wanted his story to support those of the other witnesses, he must have at least mentioned Duncan and Amanda's presence at the scene. That was fine with Duncan—more suspects meant less suspicion attached to Richie. He worried, though, that Nilsson might have implicated Anne, Angie, or Joe as well as the immortals.

"Why don't we ask him?"

Duncan opened the door of the Thunderbird and motioned Richie out. Joe settled in the back seat next to Nilsson while Duncan and Richie climbed into the front. With the convertible's top up, the space inside the car was gloomy and claustrophobic. Richie immediately lit up a cigarette; Duncan ignored him and turned around to face Joe and Nilsson.

Joe ripped the piece of duct tape off the Watcher's mouth. The man sputtered and wiped his mouth against his shoulder.

"What did you tell the police?" Duncan asked.

Nilsson eyed him disdainfully. "What difference does it make? They know who did it. They'll find the weapon, and the fingerprints."

"No, we're going to get the weapon first," Duncan corrected. "And the body. Without you, they'll have nothing but some crazy stories about sword fights and blue lightning. Richie wasn't the only one fighting, after all."

"Maybe you and your girlfriend will get off, MacLeod. But I saw Ryan behead Czeslaw. That's in writing. And the other witnesses recognized him. Those kids know how Ryan feels about gay men."

Duncan looked at Richie, who pulled out the T-Bird's ashtray and flicked his cigarette over it, his face wooden. He didn't speak to, or even glance back at, his accuser.

Joe sighed mournfully. "Damn it, Nilsson, we gave you one chance to walk away from it all. You won't get another one."

Nilsson lifted his chin. "I'm through walking away."

"You've dug your own grave," Joe growled. "And what the hell for?"

"It's for him! It's for Czeslaw."

Joe muttered something inaudible and probably obscene, and Duncan turned away, ending the interrogation. Nilsson had made a choice out of loyalty to a friend. Duncan couldn't condemn his actions, but he couldn't help the man either. His own loyalties lay in other directions.

He settled into his seat and stared out the windshield at the men who were swarming over the alleyway in search of Czeslaw's body. Hurry, he urged them silently. For God's sake, _hurry_.

Time passed slowly. Joe and Duncan spoke occasionally; both Richie and Nilsson were close-mouthed. Richie puffed his way methodically through every cigarette in the pack, forcing Duncan to open his window to the foul weather so the rest of the men could breathe. An hour and a half later, all the cigarettes consumed, Richie folded his hands beneath his arms and sighed. Duncan imagined he could feel the vibration of Richie's nerves transmitted through the body of the car, but it might just as well have been his own anxiety that caused the subtle tremors.

Finally, Duncan heard a shout go up from one of Harry's men. "Stay here!" he ordered Richie. He jumped from the car, eager for action of any sort. A minute later he was at the end of the alleyway, inspecting the find. One of the searchers had turned up the hilt of Czeslaw's sword. Duncan stored the broken sword inside his coat and, unwilling to return to the confines of the car, he plunged into the debris pile to help Harry's men dig.

A few minutes later, he spotted Richie's sword. Almost miraculously, it was still in one piece, although the blade was damaged beyond repair. Greatly relieved by the discovery, Duncan abandoned the rubble for the better light by the roadside. He ducked behind Harry's truck, pulled a handkerchief from his pants pocket, and meticulously wiped clean any surface that might have retained Richie's fingerprints.

He looked up when he felt the approach of another immortal. Richie loped around the side of the truck.

"Bloody hell, Richie, are you an idiot? You can't be found here!"

"I can't stay in that car, Mac," Richie pleaded. "Please. Besides, that's my sword!"

"Go back to the car," Duncan ordered. "It won't be much longer now." He hid Richie's former sword inside his coat, glad that his own fingerprints would now predominate if anyone ever managed to analyze the weapon for forensic purposes. With two-and-a-half swords inside his coat, plus Nilsson's pistol, he felt like a walking arsenal.

"I want to dig," Richie insisted.

"'Scuse me, MacLeod." Harry brushed past the two men and climbed into the back of the truck. He emerged a few seconds later with a body bag, which he tossed over to one of his men.

"You found Czeslaw?" Duncan asked hopefully.

"Part of him," Harry agreed.

Richie blanched, a day's growth of reddish beard suddenly obvious on his stricken face.

Oblivious, Harry went on. "I guess the only question now is, what do you want me to do with him?"

Duncan considered. "Get the body out of Seattle and cremate the remains. Do right by him, Harry. I'll let you know where to bury the ashes. I'll have to do some research on his family first."

"Right you are," Harry said, as he trundled off. "Start writing that check."

"They're doing this for three hundred?" Richie wondered aloud, counting Harry's crew and calculating each man's share. "Three hundred _grand?_" His eyes widened, and he sagged against the truck. "God, Mac, how can you...three hundred grand to bury _him?_"

"No, to keep you out of prison!" Duncan retorted. "And to bury Czeslaw. I owe him that, Richie. He was a good man. He had every right to challenge Amanda."

"A good man?" Richie choked. "Oh, yeah, right. I was the one who dishonored him. I almost forgot."

"Richie, this is not the time or the place to discuss this. Please! Go back to the car before the police show up!"

"Upstanding citizen. Founding father. War hero. They're always fucking heroes."

Their current situation was too dangerous to allow for much in the way of diplomacy. "Richie!" Duncan rebuked. "Being gay doesn't make you a rapist or a pedophile. Czeslaw spared your life. How could he be either of those things?"

"You're so sure he's a hero?" Richie's eyes blazed with the pain of Duncan's presumed betrayal. "You don't even know what he did! You weren't in the store that night! You weren't in the bar, either! But you don't have to ask me what happened, do you, Mac? Because you know more about it than I do."

Understanding the source of Richie's feelings wasn't helping Duncan a bit. Frustrated, he gripped the back of Richie's neck. "I think he intimidated you. Maybe he even used sex to do it—I don't know. Don't think that doesn't infuriate me, Richie, because it damn well does. But I have to forgive Czeslaw for that, for two reasons. One, because I've intimidated plenty of people myself, and I wasn't always very careful how I went about it. And, two, because Czeslaw didn't just spare your life. He sacrificed his life for yours. No matter what else he did, I'll always be grateful to him for that."

Richie scoffed. "You think you know him, that he's like you. Everybody thinks that. Everybody thinks...what a nice guy, it couldn't have been his fault. But he's _not like you! _God damn it, Mac, he's not!"

God help me, Duncan thought. This is a hell of a place for a therapy session. He took a deep breath. "OK, Rich," he conceded. "You're right. I didn't know Czeslaw well, and I never will. I don't know what you were to him. But you know a lot more about monsters than I do, so let's assume that you're right about Czeslaw. We still need to get his body out of here, and I still need you to go back to the car because I'm damn near positive I can't carry you. So please, Richie, please, give me a break, and _get the hell back to the car._"

Richie blinked. He seemed mollified by Duncan's willingness to accommodate his point of view. "OK, Mac." He grinned. "All you had to do was ask." He slipped around the side of the truck and jogged back toward the Thunderbird.

Duncan released a heartfelt sigh. He eased himself onto the back of the truck and rested there, watching while Harry's men searched for Czeslaw's headless body. When another cry went up from the diggers, he finally did pull his checkbook from his coat pocket. His brazen plan had succeeded. He should have been overjoyed, but he was too exhausted to feel anything as strenuous as elation. The fine print on the check blurred before his eyes.

"Down!" Harry barreled into the truck, knocking Duncan to the floor. "Jesus H. Christ, MacLeod, are you blind?"

Duncan looked up. Reflected on the roof of the truck were the flashing red and blue lights of a police cruiser. He retreated deep into the interior of the truck and punched his fist into the wall. So close! They had been so damn close!

"Stay here," Harry whispered urgently. He hopped out of the truck and went to meet the approaching officers of the law.

***

Nicotine buzzed almost audibly through Richie's system as he hunched in the front seat of the T-Bird, waiting for Harry's men to complete their gruesome task. He drummed his fingers arrhythmically on the dashboard while fretting over the incredible sum that Mac was spending on this enterprise. Three hundred thousand dollars. Three hundred thousand dollars _and _the risk of being caught red-handed. Jesus God Almighty.

"If you don't stop that," Joe threatened from the back seat, "I'll turn you in to the cops myself."

Richie snorted and favored Joe with a grin.

Turning back to his watchful position, he cursed at their sudden change of fortune. "Cops! Fuck!" He leaped for the car door, only to be yanked forcefully backward as Joe's arm shot between the bucket seats and fastened on his own.

Joe wrenched his left arm back and upward, twisting it behind the car seat. "Don't even think about it!" he rumbled.

"Damn it, Joe!" Richie grappled with the older man, but short of breaking—or slicing off—Joe's fingers, he couldn't escape their grip. A punch to the face might have done the trick, but Richie didn't have the stomach for that.

Joe twisted harder. "You listen to me, you stupid son of a bitch! If you go running in there, you'll ruin everything MacLeod's ever done for you. You'll ruin _him! _LET HIM HANDLE IT!"

Richie had to do something _now_, before the cops hauled Mac off to jail in his place. He strained harder against the tenacious fingers, uncaring of the consequences. "So break my fucking arm, I don't give a shit!"

Nilsson lifted his feet with a grunt and kicked Joe in the ribs. He lunged for the handle of the driver-side door and rolled into the street.

Joe gasped in pain and released his hold on Richie. Cursing again, Richie scurried out of the car to intercept Nilsson, who had already pulled himself to his feet and begun to stagger toward the police car at the far end of the street.

"Help!" Nilsson shouted once, before Richie clamped a hand over his mouth and forced him behind the cover of a nearby fence. Nilsson kicked and shoved against him but soon tired of the effort. So much for learning self-defense by observation, Richie thought wryly. Even if his hands had been free, Nilsson didn't have the skill to resist a well-trained Girl Scout.

Worried that some passerby might spot them, he dragged Nilsson farther away from the street. A gravel driveway paralleled the fence, ending in a small patch of asphalt that served as the back entrance to a copy shop and a tiny Vietnamese restaurant. A dumpster, a delivery van, and a pile of tangled quake debris crowded the pavement.

Richie knew from experience that a call for help in this neighborhood would be futile. He removed the hand that covered Nilsson's mouth. "Try keeping your mouth shut for once, would you?"

Off-balance, Nilsson slipped on a patch of oil and scrabbled at the filthy blue dumpster for support, his breath coming in quick, short gulps. His frightened eyes darted between Richie and the path back to the main street.

He thinks I'm going to kill him, Richie realized with a pang. _Shit. _Manhandling this middle-aged mortal made him feel like the worst kind of criminal. He hated being stuck here in this stinking little enclosure when Mac needed his help. But releasing Nilsson now would endanger not only him, but Duncan and Joe as well.

Resigning himself to guard duty, Richie crossed his arms and concentrated on the rapid rise and fall of the other man's chest. Nilsson had good reason to panic, he knew. Ultimately, handing the man over to the Watchers would have the same effect as shoving a sword through his belly.

"It doesn't matter what you do now," Nilsson wheezed unexpectedly. "The cops have got you. They've got the body, the weapon, the crime scene, and my statement. You might as well give yourself up."

Richie shook his head, his eyes stinging. "What are you, an idiot? Don't you know Mac will take the blame?" Of that, he had no doubt. Whether he liked it or not, Duncan would protect him.

Nilsson's mouth gaped.

The Watcher's disbelief both pleased and angered Richie. "It's not like we've gotta worry about your testimony," he pointed out. "_Your _blood brothers are going to shoot you and drop your flabby body in the Pacific."

Nilsson laughed harshly, acknowledging the truth of Richie's words. He lifted his face to the rain and closed his eyes. "I don't care anymore," he sighed.

Richie stared at him a moment and then shrugged, affecting nonchalance. "Yeah, that's going around." He didn't want to feel sorry for this guy, this guy who'd had a chance at a normal life but had chosen to be part of the Game. Still, he was troubled by an ugly suspicion that Joe Dawson wouldn't have reacted much differently if Mac had died at the hands of some unseasoned immortal like himself.

Nilsson opened his eyes. His voice was steadier now, almost resigned. "Why did you do it?" he asked. "Czeslaw was one of the finest immortals who ever lived. He had nothing against you."

This was incredible. How could two people as different as Mac and Nilsson believe something so blatantly untrue? "The bastard was gonna carve Amanda up while she was dead!" Richie seethed. "He was gonna kill Mac to get to her. Tell me how that makes him the _good guy._"

Nilsson frowned. "It's not against the Rules. He just wanted justice. He'd stopped caring about anything else. He needed to make things right."

Richie had felt that way once. He'd urged Duncan to make things right for Tessa, to mete out justice to her killer. He still remembered Duncan's response: 'I can't do anything for Tessa now.' Wasn't Chet old enough to have learned that fact of life?

He brushed frozen rain off the sleeves of Duncan's oversized coat. "Yeah, well, maybe he shoulda found a better way," he said mildly. "The Rules suck."

"You aren't going to make it long, are you, kid?"

Richie had to laugh at that. "Tell me something I don't know."

"You have his quickening!" Nilsson thumped his bound hands to his chest, as if touching some empty spot in his own heart. "The man who should have won the Prize inside a little prick like you. At least if Amanda had killed him, Czeslaw would have died fighting for what he believed in." His voice rose in despair. "All those years, and then he dies for a nothing like you. For_ nothing._

"God damn you." The dumpster lid thundered as Nilsson pounded his fists against the metal. He proclaimed the words like a judge delivering a capital sentence. "God damn you to hell. You have all that's left of him."

Richie turned away, unwilling to face this judgment. Suddenly his whole body jerked as the nicotine tremors amplified into muscle contractions that shuddered up and down his spine. A more powerful consciousness than his own surged into his brain, smothering reason with fear and loathing. Revolted, Richie gasped for air and struggled for control over his own body. It was all he could do to stay on his feet.

Then, as quickly as it had arrived, the disorientation cleared, and he realized what an ass he had been. Chet might be inside him forever, but he was dead. The aching alertness in his head and body indicated that an entirely different immortal was near.

Richie drew his katana from his coat. He prayed that the approaching immortal was Duncan—unescorted by the police—but he had to be prepared for anything. He glanced down at the unfamiliar blade. Duncan's blood darkened the steel, reminding him of his promise.

Misinterpreting his intent, Nilsson jeered at him. "Yes, do it!" he crowed. "Kill me, too, you fucking little bastard!"

Something inside Richie broke. "You want his quickening?" he snarled. "Is that what you really want?" He whirled the sword downward, into its safe position, and thrust the hilt at Nilsson. "Go ahead! Take it!"

Nilsson stepped back. "You're crazy!" he snorted. "I'm not an immortal."

"Yeah, but you like the Game. You want me dead, right? That's what evens the score. And if I'm dead, I can't enjoy your boy's quickening, can I? I'll be a _nothing _forever. So go on, do it. Send Chet somewhere worthy. You know how."

Nilsson dismissed the suggestion impatiently. He stretched out his hands, his wrists still bound together by the duct tape. "Let me go," he demanded. "I'm not a killer!"

Richie lifted the sword, paused, and then brought the blade down smoothly and precisely, cutting only through the outermost layer of the tape. Nilsson moaned in relief and sank to his knees, using his teeth to tear at the ends of the tape.

Richie watched for a moment. He didn't offer any further assistance."Yeah," he said, stashing the katana inside his coat. "That's what I used to think."

He turned and shuffled back down the driveway, focusing on the gravel that crunched beneath his feet. Duncan and Joe waited for him beside the fence only a few yards away. Joe's face was woeful, and he hugged an arm to his left side, cradling his injured ribs. Duncan looked no better. His hair hung in heavy, wet strands. The shoulders of his old-fashioned trenchcoat were saturated by the damp and dusted with crusty bits of sleet. His appearance, and his stern but mournful demeanor, made Richie think of weathered military statues, of forgotten generals keeping watch over forgotten battlefields.

He halted in front of his teacher. "Did I break my word?" he asked. He knew that he had.

Duncan surveyed him silently. "No," he said solemnly, after long consideration. "No, you knew he wouldn't do it."

"Yeah," Richie said. "Sure." He scrubbed a hand across his face. Mac wasn't disappointed in him. That helped a lot. He swallowed hard. "So am I going to the big house?" he asked.

"The police did claim the body," Duncan said. "But they couldn't take it in the squad car. So they designated the National Guard to convey it to the coroner."

Richie lifted an eyebrow. "The National Guard would be Harry?"

Duncan nodded and opened his coat to reveal all the weapons he still carried. "And I have the other evidence."

"How 'bout that?" Richie mused. Relief bubbled up into a giddy laugh. "We finally caught a lucky break!"

Neither Duncan nor Joe shared his amusement. "Why let Nilsson go, Rich?" Joe rasped. "He can still do you damage."

Two pairs of eyes drilled through him, snuffing the impulse for a flippant response. Richie chewed on his lower lip. "I don't know," he answered a few seconds later. "I guess I can't tell the good guys from the bad guys anymore. Didn't want to take the chance." He pleaded his case directly to Duncan. "Besides, Angie'd want to know what happened to the guy. I don't want her to think I kill _people_."

Duncan's eyes narrowed, anger smoldering within. He growled deep in his chest—why, Richie didn't know. Maybe uncertainty and a desire to make Angie happy weren't the most honorable of motives. Richie glanced nervously at Joe, hoping for an ally.

The unfortunate Nilsson chose that moment to lurch down the gravel drive. His hands now free, he swerved away from the three men, dashing toward the safety of the street.

Duncan straightened. "Take Joe home," he directed Richie, his voice coldly authoritarian. "I'll meet you at his house later." He headed after Nilsson.

"Mac!"

Joe put a restraining hand on Richie's arm. "Let him get it out of his system, Rich. God knows, he needs it."

***

Leaving Richie in Joe's care was probably an abrogation of his promises to Anne, Angie, and Willa. Duncan knew that. But he couldn't let Nilsson walk away unscathed. Someone had to protect Richie's future, and Richie himself didn't seem up to the job.

Nilsson was unexpectedly quick on his feet. Duncan, near exhaustion, had to pump his powerful arms and force his aching legs forward by an act of will. Two blocks later, he intercepted the Watcher at a pay phone beside a small parking lot.

He snatched the receiver from Nilsson's hand and placed it firmly back on the hook. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Calling the police," Nilsson said, with more than a hint of bravado. "Adding kidnapping to the charges."

Surprised by the man's boldness, Duncan chuckled. The sound emerged as a dry cough. "And what," he asked, "makes you think I'll let you?"

Nilsson cocked his head toward the open door of the convenience store next to the parking lot. His wet brown hair flopped over his forehead. "Aside from our audience?" he asked, pushing the hair away from his eyes. "I know your records inside out, MacLeod. You don't kill mortals."

The words took Duncan aback. 'I don't kill people,' Richie had said, revealing just how little he understood about his own immortality, his own worth. The statement had ignited Duncan's long-simmering rage at both Nilsson and Richie's childhood abusers. But now, hearing virtually the same phrase from Nilsson's lips, Duncan recognized his own contribution toward Richie's misunderstanding. If Richie believed that mortals—and only mortals—had a right to live, it was because that was what _Duncan _had taught him. Intent on preparing Richie to play the Game, he'd never thought to assure the new immortal that he was still a human being. That he was not expendable.

Despair washed over Duncan. The anger that had fueled him this far dribbled away, trickling from his body like the ice that melted from his shoulders and puddled beneath his boots. He squinted down Broadway Avenue, remembering his emotionally charged conversations with Czeslaw, visualizing Richie and Amanda as they battled for their lives, reliving his own terror and fury and helplessness in the hands of fate.

He turned back to Nilsson. "You believe that?" he asked. "That you can watch us kill, watch us die, and be immune from harm?"

"Harm from _you,_" Nilsson said, his confidence absolute.

Duncan glowered at him, hating Nilsson both for his easy dismissal of Richie's life and for his childlike faith that Duncan's honor would always trump all other considerations. "I haven't forgotten that you were the one who set up Amanda," he rasped. "This is your doing. _You _broke the rules. Not Richie. And still you believe that I'll let you go, even if it costs Richie everything?"

"I know you will."

Duncan nodded. "That's what Richie thinks, too," he growled.

Nilsson took a step back, his eyes wide, his certainty shaken. He grabbed again for the phone. Duncan reached it first, knocking the receiver aside with one arm as the other hand clenched Nilsson's neck. He pressed forward, crushing Nilsson's head and shoulders against the telephone. The Watcher yelped in pain.

"Hey!" someone shouted from the parking lot. Duncan ignored the stranger and squeezed his fingers around Nilsson's throat.

"I have killed mortals," he threatened, nose-to-nose with Nilsson. "I just hoped you'd have enough sense to save your own skin." He sneered. "Or maybe enough_ gratitude_. That kid you just called a 'nothing' didn't have to let you go. I wouldn't have."

"Because he feels guilty I should let him get away with it?" Nilsson squeaked, struggling for air. "He _is _guilty! I want him to pay. I want him to suffer."

"He's guilty of defending himself. Of protecting the people he loves. Can you say that Czeslaw never did the same?"

"It's not the same," Nilsson insisted in a frightened whisper.

God, the man was a child, a moral simpleton. Perhaps facts would hold more sway with him than appeals to fairness. Duncan released the Watcher and stepped away, his cold, numb fingers working at his coat buttons. A moment later he pulled Czeslaw's broken sword from its hiding place and displayed it across his forearm.

Nilsson recoiled at the sight of the smashed hilt and the jagged, bloody blade.

"As you can see, I have your evidence," Duncan said flatly. "As well as the body. Why would you pursue a case that can't possibly go anywhere? If you go on with this vendetta, your own people will kill you."

Nilsson looked to him for permission before reaching out to touch the metal lovingly, reverently. Tears glistened in his eyes. "Czeslaw shouldn't have died," he said softly. "He should have won the Prize."

Duncan barked a laugh. "You're a fool! You're a fool if you've watched him all these years and you think that's what his life was about."

Nilsson shook his head. "No, he wasn't fighting for his own gain. He fought for the right. For thousands of years, he fought for the right."

Duncan snorted in disgust and hid the weapon back inside his coat. "But it's the thousands of years that matter, isn't it? All that fascinating personal history, all those records, your big chance to be a part of it all. It wouldn't have been nearly so captivating to watch someone who didn't have all that mileage. Someone whose head wouldn't be much of a loss."

"It wasn't like that! Czeslaw was my friend."

"And Richie is a son to me. A son! Am I supposed to forget that because he's an immortal? Do you think because I'm an immortal, I don't care about him? Is that what you think immortals are?"

"Ryan's not worth saving, MacLeod. If you opened your eyes, you'd know that."

With a flash of insight, Duncan realized that only Czeslaw's motives would ever matter to his distraught Watcher. There was no sense in arguing any other point. He sighed. "This is what I know, Nilsson, and you don't. Czeslaw chose to die. He didn't want to be some lemming drawn to the Gathering. He told me. He wanted a death that had some meaning, and he managed to find something a lot more meaningful than killing Amanda. He didn't give up—he gave Richie a chance at life. Because he knew Richie was worth saving."

"You're lying!" Nilsson assailed him. "Lying!"

"You knew Czeslaw. You claim to know me. You decide." Duncan shrugged. "You can make his death meaningless if that's what you want. All you have to do is destroy the life he saved."

Nilsson made no response.

Wonderful, Duncan thought to himself. I've lost the debate, and now I don't even have enough strength left to throttle the bloody idiot. Sighing, he resolved to let Richie's decision stand. Nilsson would live. Somehow or other, so would Richie.

He scowled at Nilsson, turned, and tramped away.

***

"Why's Mac so pissed off?" Richie asked. He paced beside Joe, prepared to catch him if he slipped on the wet sidewalk. He would have offered his arm, but he wasn't sure the Watcher would consider his bruised ribs sufficient reason to accept a helping hand.

Joe's laugh rumbled deep in his chest before ending in a short, hacking cough. "It's tough being a moralist in a Darwinian world, Rich."

Richie didn't have a clue what that was supposed to mean. Probably something only Mac and Joe would understand.

Joe stopped beside the sedan and fished in his coat pocket for his keys. "Wanna drive?" he asked with a knowing smile.

"Of course!" Richie took the keys gleefully. While Joe levered himself into the passenger seat, Richie slipped behind the wheel and examined the hand controls with delighted curiosity. "Is this the accelerator?" he asked.

"Brake," Joe said dryly. "Why don't we try this?" He leaned over, favoring his injured side, and flipped a switch. The hand controls swung away from the foot pedals.

"Cool!" Richie exclaimed. He started the car and pulled away from the curb. Then, recollecting another forgotten detail of the day he confronted Czeslaw, he shot a glance at Joe. "Hey, didn't you tell me I wouldn't be able to drive this car?"

"So sue me."

Richie smiled. He wouldn't fall for that line again. He increased the speed of the windshield wipers, which were fighting a losing battle with the freezing rain. "What's a Darwinian world, anyway?"

Joe eyed him sharply, then sighed and rubbed a hand across his beard. "You know, Charles Darwin. Survival of the fittest. Dog-eat-dog. Might makes right."

"Oh." Richie nodded. "You mean the Game."

Joe clasped the top of the cane that rested between his artificial knees. "Among other things," he agreed, with a twist of his lips that wasn't quite a smile.

"You don't think Mac'll kill Nilsson, do you?"

"Not a chance." Joe dismissed the idea with a wave of one hand. "Not that the fool doesn't deserve it." He rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder, stretching sore muscles. "Going after you with MacLeod around is like getting between a raging elephant and her calf. Nobody that dumb is fit to live."

Richie grinned at the image. "You calling Mac a mother?"

"For all you know, he is."

Richie snickered. "I guess that's right. After all, somebody's gotta be, right?"

Joe grunted affirmatively. "Unless you believe in storks."

Richie pondered his uncertain parentage for most of the drive. In one way, immortality had actually alleviated some of the loneliness he had felt as a foster child. There was a kind of comfort in knowing that he hadn't just been dumped by both mother and father—or, if he had, that all other immortals were in the same boat. Sure, he hadn't been lucky, like Mac, with his adoptive parents. Bad luck was easier to accept than being unwanted by your own family.

"Whoa!" The car made a spectacular fishtail skid through an icy intersection. Resisting the impulse to overcorrect, Richie let the car slide to a stop. "Sorry, Joe," he gulped. "You OK?"

The Watcher released his grip on the dashboard and raised an eyebrow at Richie. "Yeah. Good thing your reflexes are better than mine."

Pleased by that vote of confidence, Richie slowed the car to a crawl and concentrated on the road. Sometimes he forgot that not everyone could just walk away from a car accident. He'd have to be more careful.

At last he pulled into Joe's driveway and hurried around the car to help Joe out. Footing on the slick pavement was now so treacherous that, without asking, he put an arm around Joe's waist. The Watcher responded by throwing an arm over his shoulder. Together they negotiated the porch steps one at a time. Richie clung to Joe on one side and the porch railing on the other.

Despite the frigid wind, Joe was sweating profusely by the time they entered the living room. "God, Joe, why don't you get a ramp?" Richie asked.

"There's one in back," Joe wheezed. He took a moment to recover his breath. "Just hate using it when I'm on my feet."

Richie wondered whether Joe would have used the ramp if he hadn't been around. He hoped so. But he kept his mouth shut and helped Joe off with his overcoat before removing his own. "You all right?" he asked. "You want me to wrap your ribs or something?"

"Nah," Joe said. He waved his cane toward the kitchen. "Make yourself at home. I'll be fine once I get into my chair." He headed toward the bedroom, his stiff-legged gait even slower than usual.

Richie went into the kitchen. Joe's unspoken assumption—that he was hungry—happened to be correct. However, his culinary skills weren't sophisticated enough to cope with most of the contents of Joe's refrigerator. He rummaged around in some lower cabinets until he found two large cans of minestrone—the good stuff. He poured the contents into a sauce pan and then started a pot of coffee.

While waiting for lunch to heat, he wandered back into the living room. For the first time, he noticed that Joe's books were still neatly arranged on his many bookshelves. Nothing was obviously broken. Even the paintings on the wall were level. Either Joe had cleaned up in short order, or his home hadn't suffered much quake damage in the first place. The only problem Richie spotted was in the dining room, where a bright, white fracture in the wallboard slashed one dark-green wall.

A newspaper lay on the gleaming cherrywood table. Richie picked it up. "Seattle Devastated by 7.9 Quake; Hundreds Believed Dead" the headline proclaimed. He pulled out a chair and sat down. He hadn't seen a newspaper or listened to the radio since the day of the quake; he realized now that he hadn't even thought much about the parts of the city that weren't of immediate importance to him. But it was clear from the paper's grainy photographs and riveting stories that the deaths of Rajiv Sharma and Mrs. Burke had not been anomalies. In the city's northern and eastern suburbs, hundreds had been trapped by fire or debris. In a few neighborhoods the ground shaking had been so severe that almost every building had been reduced to rubble.

"Shit." Richie whistled under his breath.

"Yeah, it's bad," Joe said behind him. His wheelchair moved soundlessly across the low-pile wool carpet. He'd cleaned up and changed his shirt. In his lap rested a damp white towel of the sort that he often used to wipe down the bar. He tossed it to Richie. "Better wash off that war paint."

"Huh?" Richie put a hand to his cheek. Geeze! Mac's blood! He'd forgotten all about that aspect of the oath-taking. He used the towel to scrub at his face, jaw, and neck. "No wonder that girl at the 7-11 looked at me funny."

"I expect she's seen worse," Joe commented. He didn't inquire as to the source of the blood, a small privacy for which Richie was grateful. "Do I smell coffee?"

"Yeah, I'll get it." Richie went off and returned with two mugs of hot, black coffee.

Joe refused the offer of soup. "No, I've gotta make some phone calls. You eat whatever you want."

The mention of the telephone reminded Richie that Nilsson could be a danger to Joe, too. "Will the Watchers give you trouble about losing Nilsson?"

Joe didn't seem too concerned. "Not when I explain that a couple of immortals wanted him more than I did." His eyes crinkled. "That's something every Watcher understands."

Richie found it hard to believe that Joe, with all his wit and experience, would ever defer to him simply because he was an immortal. But maybe that was just a Watcher's version of street smarts. Speaking of which... "I shouldn't be at your house, should I?" he asked. "It's not public, like the bar. What if the Watchers find out?"

"Nobody's going to find out, except maybe Mike, and he won't turn me in. You know any other Watchers who would come inside a quake zone in an ice storm just to see who's sleeping in my guest room?"

"I guess not," Richie said slowly. "But—"

"Screw them," Joe said. "You need a place to stay, you're staying." With that, he backed up his wheelchair and retreated into his study, shutting the door behind him.

Richie had polished off the minestrone and several slices of bread when he felt the warning scrape against his spine that indicated Duncan's arrival. He dumped his soup bowl in the sink.

A wintry blast roared past him as he opened the front door and ventured out onto the porch in his shirtsleeves. "Mac?"

The T-Bird was parked a half-block down the street, at an angle that suggested less-than-perfect driver control. Duncan stood at the bottom of the stairs, listing in the fierce wind. His trenchcoat, unbuttoned, flapped open, the weapons within clanking portentously. Sleet plastered the front of his sweater.

"Mac?" Richie called again. When Duncan didn't answer, he maneuvered carefully down the stairs, each of which was now glazed in a quarter-inch of ice. "C'mon, Mac, Joe says we're staying here tonight." He drew Duncan's arm around his shoulder and helped him up the stairs just as he had Joe. Once inside, Duncan took a few tottering steps forward before coming to an abrupt halt.

Richie diagnosed exhaustion, probably with a touch of hypothermia. He eased the trenchcoat off Duncan's shoulders and pushed him down onto the sofa.

"I'll get you some coffee," he said. "You hungry, Mac?"

No response.

Man, this was bad. Richie went to the kitchen, poured another mug of coffee, and returned to the living room. He put the mug in Duncan's hands, wrapped his fingers around it, and waited. "It's hot," he said. "Drink it, Mac."

Duncan stared up at him, his deep brown eyes nearly invisible beneath the heavy droop of his eyelids. His nose and cheeks were raw from the cold wind, and water trickled from his hair down his face and neck. "I let Nilsson go," he croaked. "I had to let him go, Rich."

Richie was warmed by an enormous surge of love for him. 'You're the best,' he wanted to say. 'The _best_. Thanks for getting me out of this mess.'

But the words stuck in his throat. Having unloaded his problems on Angie and Mac, he was now safe, warm, full, and feeling better by the minute. Meanwhile Duncan was tying himself in knots trying to protect him. "Uh, sure, Mac," he stammered guiltily. "I know. What else could you do?"

A low moan issued from Duncan's lips, as if the question caused him pain. He struggled to sit up straight, looking around the room for the first time. "Where's Dawson?" he asked.

Richie nodded toward the office door. "Making some phone calls."

Duncan put down the untouched coffee mug and reached for Richie's arm. "Call Angie. I need to talk to her."

"You need to talk to my girlfriend?" Richie asked, amused. "Don't you think a little shuteye is a better idea?"

"Call her!" Duncan demanded, his voice rough.

"Geeze, Mac, OK!" Richie extricated himself from Duncan's grip and fumbled inside the Highlander's coat for the cell phone. He dialed the number and handed the phone to Duncan when he heard Angie pick up.

"Angie?" Duncan slurred. He sank back into the sofa, his eyes closed. "It's Duncan."

Great, Richie thought. She's gonna think he's drunk.

Duncan paused while Angie spoke. "We're OK," he continued. "Richie's comin' over to see you now."

"No, Mac," Richie interjected. "I'm gonna meet her tonight at eight."

"_Now_," Duncan repeated firmly. His eyes opened to fix on Richie. "I have to sleep now." He listened to Angie again before passing the phone to Richie.

"Come on over to my house, Richie," Angie said. "Before the weather gets any worse, OK?"

"What are you, Mac's backup babysitter?" he asked sourly.

"Just do it, Richie!"

"All right already," he groused. He did want to see Angie—he just didn't want to feel like a baton being passed between relay racers. "I'm on my way."

He flipped the phone shut and tossed it to Duncan. "Wanna tell me what's going on?"

"You need to warn her..." Duncan wavered. "The police might question her."

Yeah, right, Richie thought. Like you couldn't say that on the phone? "Angie can handle herself with the police," he said confidently. "Believe me."

Duncan's eyes closed again. "She reminds me of Tessa. Same age as when...when we met."

Richie shook his head in mock mourning as he lifted Duncan's feet onto the sofa and pulled off his boots. "Man, you really are wiped, aren't you? We're talking Angie. You know, short and brunette, doesn't speak a word of French?"

"She's imperious," Duncan murmured, smiling to himself.

Richie paused in the act of removing the gun and swords from Duncan's coat. "I hope I don't have to kill you for that," he said.

"Bossy," Duncan explained, without bothering to open his eyes.

"Oh." Richie spread the coat over Duncan. "You're just noticing?"

Duncan was asleep. Richie knocked on Joe's door and stuck his head in long enough to explain that Duncan had arrived and he was leaving. Then he took the keys to the Thunderbird. Judging from his condition, Mac wasn't going to need them any time soon.

***

If the preceding days hadn't been so eventful, Richie would have classified the drive to Angie's house as an adventure in itself. Lacking earthquakes, fires, sword fights, or the threat of imminent arrest, however, the journey instead felt more like a peaceful interlude. Without a mortal in the car, he could enjoy testing his driving skills against the forces of nature. He maneuvered the ice-covered and quake-damaged streets expertly, keeping his eyes fixed on the road and his hands on the wheel. His mind was free to assess his current circumstances.

With the threat of prison receding, the future no longer yawned beneath his feet like an open grave. A determined Nilsson might still try to build a murder case against him, but Richie thought he could win that battle. And in the meantime, he could go back to Willa and the store, keep training with Mac, find some way to assist Angie and her family. He'd been way too caught up in his own problems lately, when it was Angie who'd suffered the real loss. Mac was right—it was about time he figured out that there were other people who needed him around. He thought about the newspaper photos and wondered if all the newly homeless had found shelter from this storm. Maybe someday he could help rebuild some of those flattened homes. That would be worth something.

When his thoughts moved from the future to the past, he became uneasy. Even with the benefit of Duncan's recollections, he couldn't quite piece together everything that had happened during his fight with Chet—or, for that matter, exactly what had happened in the dojo the night before. He worried over the subject for many blocks, trying to put together an accurate time line, but eventually gave up the attempt to reconstruct his memory.

He wanted to focus on the good news: he could think clearly again. Offering Nilsson his head seemed to have finally rid him of the last disturbing remnants of Chet's quickening. He knew that couldn't really be true—that he still had to deal with his responsibility for Chet's death—but at least now he felt in charge of his own thoughts and feelings. All the Watchers were _outside _his head again.

For the fifth time, he pulled over to scrape ice off the windshield and brush down the car's cloth top. Still without hat or gloves, he speculated on whether frostbite could make an immortal's fingertips fall off and, if so, whether they'd grow back. He hoped he wouldn't have to find out.

Afterward, he warmed his hands over the car's heating vents and gave thanks for the comfort of Duncan's heavy coat. It was weird that he could have been terrified of a coat just the night before. Kind of like sex, he thought—weird how it could be both the most sublime and the most horrific thing that had ever happened to him.

He cut off that line of thinking before it could spin out of control. Angie and Mac knew all about his past now, and they were OK with it. It was done, and he didn't have to think about it anymore. The future was looking good—as good as it could for a new immortal—and the past was over. He could just be normal for a while. Normal wouldn't last, he knew, but if he could have just a few days, at least he might be able to sort things out with Angie. Then, if she decided to call it quits, maybe he could find a way to handle it.

When at last he reached the Burkes' home, he parked on the street and rested behind the steering wheel for a minute. Angie had apparently been watching for him, because in short order she was knocking on the passenger-side window.

"Richie?" She pulled at the door handle, but the door was frozen in place.

He tried unsuccessfully to open it from the inside. Then, muttering "Sorry, Mac," he lifted both feet and gave the door a good, solid kick. The hinge groaned and gave way.

Angie climbed inside and pulled the door shut behind her with some difficulty. She was bundled up in a jacket, mittens, and a knitted scarf wrapped around her head and neck. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold. "Richie, where have you been? Are you OK?"

"Yeah," he said, smiling. "I am now." He leaned over to buss her cheek. "Don't you wanna go inside?"

"I wanted to talk to you first," she explained. "Some friends of Alan's are staying with us until their roof gets fixed, and Dad's been in the basement crying, so we aren't going to have much privacy in the house."

"Oh, man, I'm sorry," Richie said. What kind of a day had she had? He wished he could take her away somewhere to talk, but that was out of the question in these conditions. "OK. We can talk here."

The T-Bird's front seats didn't really allow for snuggling, but Angie scooted as close to Richie as she could. "So tell me how you really are."

"I'm fine. I'm over the Q now. I just needed some sleep and some food." He folded his fingers around one of her mittens. "How are you?"

"Worried."

Richie sighed. "Angie, everything's OK. Mac even took care of Chet's body this morning, just like you wanted. So you don't have to worry about that anymore. The cops might come by and ask you what you saw, but that's it."

"Oh," Angie said, her expression doubtful. "That's good, I guess."

"You don't have to lie to them," he added hastily. "Even if you tell them the truth, they won't believe you."

Angie squeezed his hand. "Richie, that's not what I'm worried about," she said. "I'm worried about you. The last time I saw you, you were unconscious!"

The past again. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, uncertain how to explain his bizarre behavior. "I know I lost it last night, but I feel better, Ange—honest. Sorry if I scared you, but it's not like you and Mac have to watch me every minute. I'm not gonna crack up again."

"But we promised Dr. Anne that we'd look out for you."

"Anne?" Richie felt a twinge of fear. Had Anne been talking to Mac and Angie about him? How come he didn't know about that?

"She came to check on you after you passed out," Angie clarified. "You never woke up."

Shit. Richie took a deep breath. OK, so he'd been unconscious. No big deal. At least that meant he wasn't forgetting something that any sane person would have remembered. "So what'd she say?"

Angie pushed the scarf back over her hair. Her dark eyes were troubled. "She thinks you have PTSD, Richie. She thinks you need help. I think so, too."

Post-traumatic stress disorder, the favored diagnosis of kiddie shrinks everywhere. Richie snorted his derision. Sure, he had stress. What foster kid didn't? "I'll get over it," he said. "I always do."

Angie held his hand as she stared at the foggy windshield. Everything outside was a white blur. "Richie..." she said softly. "You keep going. That's not the same thing. I want you to get better. I need you to."

"I am! I told you everything about immortality, remember? I even told Mac all the worst stuff about the bastard. Just this morning I told him!"

Angie blinked rapidly, her eyelashes sparkling with tears. "It takes more than telling, Richie," she said. "You know that."

That was so goddamned unfair! Telling was hellish enough. Why did it have to go beyond that to strange doctors prodding him, strange lawyers hounding him for testimony, strange therapists cajoling him to feel things he desperately wanted to never, ever feel again? It was over! Why couldn't they just leave him alone?

"No," he said forcefully. "I'm over it, Ange. I just have to forget it. I have to get better with a _sword_. That's all that counts now."

"What good is that going to do?" Angie asked. "How can that help if you don't even want to fight for your life?"

He slammed his fist against the steering wheel. "Oh, come on, where'd you come up with that?"

Angie pulled at his elbow. "Richie," she retorted, "last night you asked Duncan to kill you!"

He jerked as far away from her as he could. His head hit the side window with a sickening thud. Fragmented thoughts and memories cartwheeled through his brain, their sharp edges poking holes in his self-confidence. He stuffed his numb hands beneath his arms and took a deep breath.

"Duncan?" he sniped, for lack of a better response. "Since when did you start calling him Duncan?"

"Richie, don't," Angie pleaded, the tears finally brimming over her eyelids and down her cheek.

"Don't what?" he asked gruffly, hating himself for making Angie cry.

"Don't pretend it didn't happen!"

Richie sighed and lifted his shoulders in a small shrug. "I guess last night seemed crazy to you, but you don't know what happened in the dojo before." He tried to make sense of it for both of them. "Besides, I...I was beat, and still wired from Chet's Q, and it was dark, and I just got mixed up what with all that talk about killing.

"Not to mention Mac coming after me with his damn coat saying he _loved _me," he added, with suitably sarcastic emphasis. "I freaked. It won't happen again."

Angie frowned. "Who did you think he was, Richie?"

He closed his eyes and let his head rest against the cold window. He didn't know the answer to her question. He didn't want to know.

"Richie?"

He looked up and made a face, trying to be comical. "I don't know. Mad Mac? Chet-ster the Molester? The bogeyman bastard, coming after me with his blanket? They all wanted a piece of me...so to speak."

Angie sniffed and wiped at her runny nose. "And you'd rather die than go through that again," she concluded, her voice hushed.

"Wouldn't you?" he blurted. "Hell, Ange, isn't that the way it's supposed to be? If I'd just...I never should have..." Never should have been afraid of the bastard's gun. Never should have run from the evil Duncan. Never should have offered himself to Chet. Death would have been more honorable than any of those choices—not to mention a lot less painful.

"You never should have been hurt," Angie finished. "But since you were, you have to do what it takes to heal. It's the only way, Richie."

"Why?" he asked. Damn it, he wanted to move forward. He wanted to be strong—had to be, to survive. He wasn't going to move backward, into that place where he was a naked, vulnerable kid, a quivering mass of dark, uncontrollable emotions. He wouldn't go back there, not even for Angie. "Why do I _have to?_"

Ignoring his defiant question, Angie tugged his half-frozen hands from beneath his coat sleeves and pulled him closer. She touched his fingers to her lips, shivered, and gave him a shaky smile. Then she pulled off her mittens and began to draw them over his hands. Drained and numb, Richie didn't resist her ministrations.

Her task completed, Angie sat back to admire the effect. Richie gazed down at the red knit mittens, each with a white angora star on the back, and recognized Mrs. Burke's craftsmanship. He smiled despite his distress.

Angie took his mittened hands in hers. "You have to because I love you, Richie. Because we need it to be happy together. And we can't be when you're so hurt inside."

'To be happy together.' He pressed his lips together so Angie wouldn't see them quiver. She really wanted to be with him. But only if the fucking past didn't get in the way.

He took a deep breath. "I want you to be happy," he said. "But I don't think...if I have to relive all that...I don't think I can handle that, Ange. I know I can't." She didn't know what she was asking. The thought of such soul-wrenching exposure made his insides shrivel.

He turned the tables. "Besides, it's not going to change anything. I'll still be an immortal. I'll still have to kill. How are _you _going to handle _that? _Don't you think happiness is maybe asking a bit much?"

"I'm asking anyway."

He laughed, wondering if even fate was willing to be bossed around by Angie Burke.

Angie wrapped her arms around him and squeezed fiercely. "You can handle it, Richie. Duncan and I will help. I don't want you to kill anybody unless you have to, but I'll deal with it. You just better not get yourself killed!"

Richie pulled out of the hug. He didn't think Angie understood how close and how real the danger was. He opened Duncan's coat and revealed the hilt of his katana and a portion of the sharp, gleaming blade.

Angie looked up at him, puzzled about his intent. She touched the sword tentatively, her fingers tracing the ribbon carved in the ivory.

"When Mac gave me this sword this morning, he made me swear I'd never fight anybody with it unless I absolutely have to. And I won't, Ange, I promise. Mac even made me swear not to get myself hurt with it." He didn't tell her how close he'd already come to breaking that part of the promise. It wasn't going to happen again.

Angie touched his arm. "But are you going to defend yourself when you need to?" she asked.

"I promise, Ange."

She patted his cheek. "I know you mean it, but how can you be sure? You might black out again, or have a flashback. What if you have to take another quickening? Shouldn't you be ready?"

He was pretty certain there weren't any therapists who could help him with that. "There can't be that many gay immortals around. And the others I can deal with."

"So the next time you take a quickening, you're going to come to me?"

"God, no!" The idea made his skin crawl. "I could kill you. That kind of sex, it's sick. It'd be like rape, Angie. You have no idea."

"But it's OK for you to get raped by somebody's quickening?"

"No, no, it's not like that," he protested. "It's not."

She shook her head. "Honey, you're the one who told me that it was. Would you turn your back on me if I needed you?"

"I can get through it alone. That's what I'll do the next time. I promise."

Angie bristled. "No! Either we're going to be together, or we're not. No more getting through things alone. If you don't want to do whatever it takes to recover from the PTSD, that's your decision. But sex now, that's our decision. You can't be so worried about hurting me that you end up hurting _us. _You can't keep running away from the people who love you."

"You don't know what you're talking about. You don't know what it's like!"

Angie was silent for a moment before she spoke again. "I know I don't know what it's like for you. I never did. I always felt bad about that, 'cause I ought to know when you were my best friend." She twisted the ends of the woolen scarf around her hands. "I just know that no matter how scared I am now, it'd be a lot worse if people were coming after me with swords, and I had to kill them and take their quickenings. Maybe I can't understand that, but I can help. So that's what I want to do."

"No," he said. "I don't want to do that to you. Not ever." He pictured the bruises he had left on her once before. And this would be much, much worse. "See, I used to think, maybe I'm used goods, but at least I don't force myself on other people. Then I had to start taking quickenings." He managed a grim smile. "At least they're immortals. The rules are different for them. But if I hurt you, Ange, that would be as low as I could go. I could never get over that."

Angie buried her head in his shoulder. "I just couldn't bear it if you went to someone else," she sobbed. "And I don't want you to be alone anymore."

So she _was _ticked about Amanda. It was actually kinda nice to know that Angie wasn't beyond jealousy. Richie stroked her hair, wondering how to convince her that Amanda would never be anything but a friend to him. "I won't go to anyone else. But you and me, we're not ready for that. Trust me on this one, Ange. We'll have to work our way up to that."

"I really, really want to try." Her voice caught. "I'd rather try than lose you without a fight." She pulled away and brushed her fingers through her hair. "Don't give up on us, Richie. Please."

It was clear that she meant what she was saying—she'd rather take the risk of getting badly hurt than walk away from him now. He remembered what Mac had said that day in the park about everyone having to pay for their joy with pain. He'd reluctantly agreed to make that tradeoff when he was the one paying the price. He hadn't realized that the deal was going to be just as hard on Angie.

He sat back, rested his head against the seat, and thought. If Angie really wanted to make a go of it, and he really wanted to make a go of it, and they both knew the consequences, wouldn't it be..._ungrateful _somehow, not to try? He'd just have to figure out some way to make sure he could never physically hurt her. Even if that meant taking Anne's medication. Or hightailing it out of town whenever another immortal showed up. Or worse...

He smiled wryly. "Boy, if we do this, I'm gonna need round-the-clock therapy."

Angie cried out her relief and threw her arms around him.

He kissed the top of her head. There was something else she needed to understand. "Ange, even if you can put up with me while I'm being a basket case, you should know that it's—we're—short-term. It's not likely I'm gonna last long. And I'll definitely have to get out of town in a few years. So no kids, no settling down, no silver anniversaries."

She lifted her head and smiled. "This isn't about that, Richie. I wasn't planning to get married at 21, anyway. This is just about you and me. Can't we just be together? Here and now?"

That was the most he'd ever dreamed of. In fact, it was too good to be true—more like pity than love. "This better not be because you feel sorry for me, Ange," he threatened. "'Cause your life will be hell. Believe me. I know what Tessa went through."

"Don't you feel sorry for me?" she challenged, surprising him. "Huh? My mom's _dead, _Richie. My family's a mess, I was almost burned in a fire, I could get sick or die at any time, my hands are freezing, and my boyfriend's an immortal. Don't you feel sorry for me?"

"Hell, yeah!"

"And do you still love me anyway?"

He saw where she was going. "Hell, yeah," he said. "I love you. That's why I don't want to make you miserable."

"Maybe I'll make you miserable."

Richie laughed and brushed his lips against hers. "Under the circumstances, Ange, I think that's pretty much guaranteed."

***

Duncan roused with a start, uncertain if he was waking from sleep or death.

Not death, he concluded a moment later. Resurrection was always accompanied by physical rejuvenation, and he had not been healed.

Bone-weary, he lay in the dark and contemplated the dream that had awakened him. He'd been attending a burial, that familiar, grief-weighted ceremony, essentially unchanged since his childhood. As he joined in the prayers, he'd surveyed the circle of friends and family members, wondering who was missing, who lay in the casket. Richie, he noted with relief, was there beside the grave, Angie's hand tucked inside his arm. Connor, Joe, Fitz, Darius, and Methos stood among the ranks of people. Mrs. Sharma and her brother huddled next to Angie's father. Willa was there, and Anne, and, while he couldn't see her, Duncan was certain that Tessa was there, too, somewhere just out of sight with his mother and father. Even Amanda was present, standing apart from the others, her shoulders hunched, her arms wrapped around herself for warmth.

It's me, Duncan had realized. It's my burial. The prospect didn't frighten him. He drifted toward the open casket. Inside lay the body of a man, a large man wearing an old leather jacket and cradling his head in the crook of one elbow. Czeslaw! Spooked, Duncan jumped back, knocking the officiating clergyman to the ground. He reached out to help the man up, only to see his own face within the priest's cowl. "There can be only one," his other self reminded him with a feral grin. Then the priest's robes dropped away, empty of any presence, and when Duncan had looked to the crowd of mourners for answers, he saw for the first time that none of them had their heads.

"Mary, Mother of God!" Duncan sputtered, sitting up and crossing himself. Did his treacherous subconscious really think it was necessary to remind him of that Rule? He cast aside the damp raincoat that covered him and began a search for his katana, finding it seconds later on the floor beside the sofa, next to his wet boots.

Only then did he pause to consider his whereabouts. He was in a large, unlit room. A bluish light emanated from a nearby doorway. In his stockinged feet, with sword in hand, he approached the light.

"MacLeod!" Joe twisted his head over one shoulder, his bearded face devilish in the flicker of his laptop computer. His wheelchair was pulled up to a table that served as his desk. Aside from the computer monitor, this room, too, was unlit. "What are you doing up?"

The fog in Duncan's brain began to clear. Of course—he was at Joe's house. He lowered the katana and rubbed one hand against his temple, where a headache was throbbing. "Where's Rich?" he asked, alarmed by the realization that he couldn't sense any other immortals in the vicinity.

Joe finished whatever he was typing. "He called. He's sleeping on the Burkes' floor tonight." He looked up with a half-smile. "The cell phone rang right next to your ear, and you didn't even twitch."

"Oh," Duncan said. "Good." He remembered now—after his infuriating encounter with Nilsson, he had been on the verge of physical collapse. He'd entrusted Richie to Angie's care. "What time is it?"

"A little after midnight." Joe backed up and wheeled himself away from the table. "You should go to bed. They don't give gold medals in sleep deprivation, you know."

Duncan wasn't eager to go back to sleep just yet. He preferred to let that last dream dissipate. "What were you writing?" he inquired.

Joe cocked his head, apparently considering whether to answer the question. "Czeslaw's post mortem report," he disclosed. "And my resignation from the field."

Joe had mentioned the possibility of retirement from active service before, but Duncan hadn't believed him then. He believed him now, and he felt bereft. "I need a drink," he said abruptly. "Actually, I need a bottle. Or two."

With one tug at his wheels, Joe propelled himself toward a low bookcase against the opposite wall. The wheelchair traveled precisely the calculated distance, rolling to a stop just at the edge of the Persian rug.

"I take it Nilsson wasn't cooperative?" Joe asked. He lifted a decanter that sat atop the bookshelf and poured Scotch into two crystal shot glasses.

Duncan suspected the Watcher was deliberately changing the subject, but he couldn't be sure. He padded across the dark room and collapsed into a wing chair near Joe, placing his katana on the floor. "It seems I'm not as frightening a figure as I thought," he said hollowly. "The only people I scare these days are the people I love."

Joe handed Duncan one of the whiskey glasses. "I wouldn't spend too much time worrying about Nilsson," he advised. "Chances are he'll make himself scarce once he realizes he can't build a case. Getting yourself killed for vengeance is one thing; dying for nothing is another."

"And just how much time should I spend worrying about _Richie?_" All the despair and loneliness and guilt that Duncan couldn't express in Richie's company flooded through him now. "Maybe _I _should retire. It's not like I've ever actually been successful at protecting anyone, is it?" He gulped his drink and reached over to pour himself another, his hands trembling with anger and frustration.

Joe fingered his own glass, letting Duncan's bitter words settle. "You might want to go easy on that stuff," he suggested mildly. "I can't carry you to bed, you know, rope ladders or not."

Duncan grimaced at this further reminder of Richie's vulnerability. "Just how much did you see the other night?" he asked. "And why the hell did you call Anne?"

"I called Anne," Joe said, letting his annoyance show, "because I figured Richie might need help from somebody besides _you._"

Duncan nearly cried out in pain at hearing this blunt expression of his own thoughts. Instead he sipped deliberately at his Scotch. "Well, you would know better than anyone what I'm capable of," he said, his voice steely. Joe had witnessed the dark quickening. Joe, he realized now, probably knew more about those dreadful days than he did.

"Whatever that means," Joe grumbled. "Come on, Mac! This isn't about anything you did. You need to understand that. It's about Richie. You just can't expect a traumatized kid to always know the difference between you and the way you were after you took out Coltec. Last night, it looked to me like you might need some professional help."

"You're an expert on post-traumatic stress, are you?"

Joe laughed and took a long drink. "I'm a Vietnam vet, Mac. They invented the term for us."

_Damn._ Duncan cursed his perpetual insensitivity. Joe was so adamantly self-sufficient—and so close-mouthed about his past—that it was all too easy to forget that he was both a war veteran and a double amputee. Trauma indeed. "I'm sorry, Joe," he mumbled. "I'm a lout." He finished his second glass and poured a third. "On the way to becoming a drunken lout."

"Forget it." Joe shrugged off the apology. "I'm just trying to tell you, it's not you. After your world blows up, it's hard to believe in anything, even the people who are doing their damnedest to help you. That doesn't mean you should stop trying. From what I've seen, you're doing a hell of a fine job with Rich. I can't imagine anyone doing better. That doesn't mean you can't accept a little help once in a while."

"So you agree with Anne," Duncan said, making an effort to keep his voice steady. Why feel so desolate about a diagnosis? "You think Richie has post-traumatic stress. Shell shock. Combat fatigue. Whatever they're calling it these days."

Joe looked into his glass and nodded. "It's not a personal failure on your part," he said. "I don't need documentation to know that somebody blew up Richie's world a long time before you came on the scene."

Duncan could take no comfort in that fact. It was merely more evidence of his powerlessness.

Joe sighed. "I wish I could say I hadn't seen it before, but the fact is it's commonplace in immortals. Orphans—especially orphans with no friends or relations—have been used like chattel since time began. It's usually mortals who are the first abusers. Then these kids grow up and they have to face the Game. It's no wonder they don't think their lives matter."

"They're not people," Duncan said softly. "_We're _not. That's what I taught him. That I'd fight to the death to protect almost any mortal, but when he needed help most, I'd step aside. And that's what I did. I stepped aside." He'd picked up Amanda's body and walked away, leaving Richie to face Czeslaw alone.

"You're not God, Mac. You can't change the Game."

Duncan slid back into the recesses of the chair and buried his head in one brocaded wing. "Then there's no hope," he said. "Richie can't recover as long as the Game goes on. For him, it's just a continuation of a kind of slaughter that started when he was a child. It doesn't matter what I tell him the Game is about. To him, it's murder and rape, and it will never be anything else." He wanted to weep now, but found that he had no tears.

Joe hunched in his chair. Finally he shook his head, rejecting Duncan's pessimism. "It depends on what you mean by recovery, I guess. In my day, there were two prescriptions for PTSD—you sent a guy home, or you sent him back to his unit. Neither one 'cured' anybody. But it gave guys a chance to find out that they could be killers, or cannon fodder, and still...still care about other people. Be cared about."

"And when your 'family' and your 'buddies' are all after your head? Who does an immortal turn to?"

"Richie knows it's safe to go to you for help. He had a flashback, that's all. He needs you, Mac. Angie can love him, Anne can treat him, and Willa can mother him, but you're the only person in the world who can teach him how to make sense of his life."

That might have been possible once, Duncan thought, when he had been certain of his own role in the Game. The last few years had robbed him of certainty. He picked up his katana, placed it across his knees, and fingered the ivory handle, summoning the nerve to ask a question he'd never raised with Joe before. Early in their relationship, he'd been uninterested in the Watcher's opinion. Now, he feared it. "What do you think the Game is about, Joe? What do you think we are?"

"Hmm." Joe's first response was a deflection. "You should ask Methos about the biological research. It's top secret, but you can bet he knows every detail. The Watchers have recovered more than enough bodies to start DNA studies, Mac. Someday we might be able to tell you exactly who you are."

That news came as something of a shock. Duncan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Do you really think I want to know which of my family members I've killed?" he asked. He shuddered, and then thrust aside that way of thinking. For four hundred years, his family had been the people he loved. He wasn't going to let DNA change that. "Look, that's not what I want to know. I'm asking you, what does it all _mean? _Why are there immortals? You wouldn't have spent thirty years of your life studying the Game if you didn't think it had some relevance for you."

Joe rolled closer to the bookshelf and filled his glass. "Like I said, at first I was just looking for other heroes to fight the battles of the world. I wasn't looking forward to facing my old friends as half a man. With the Watchers I didn't have to explain why I'd changed. I had my own little secret society, new buddies, and a new source of excitement—observing the primeval struggle between good and evil, up close and personal. And, man, it was one hell of a fantastic drama!"

Duncan pictured himself as a brightly colored member of an exotic species, his struggle for survival the subject of a nature documentary narrated by Joe Dawson. Is that how the world would think of immortals, when the Game was over and the Watchers' secrets were revealed?

"I didn't wonder what the Game meant for me," Joe went on, "or why I'd delegated immortals to fight my battles. I guess I liked the idea—you know, Mac, the whole thing is like a myth come to life. And, watching you, I never doubted the ultimate triumph of good over evil." Joe laughed at himself. "Boy Scout!"

"And now?" Duncan asked.

"Well, if you'll forgive the language," Joe rasped, "these days the gooks are looking like people to me instead of precepts."

Duncan huffed.

"OK, so I'm stuck on reliving Vietnam. You haven't left Culloden behind, have you?" Joe tossed back his drink. "You asked what I think the Game is about. I don't think it's about right and wrong. I think it's just a kind of civil war, not fundamentally different from the wars people have been fighting for centuries. Wars that meant something to somebody once, but got out of hand. The 'rules' of war are always a sham in the field, MacLeod, you don't need me to tell you that. And God's not on anybody's side, no matter who says so."

"I've tried to enforce what's right." He hadn't always succeeded, Duncan knew. But he had tried.

"Because that's what you bring to the table, Mac—your sense of morality, and your reluctance to kill without cause. The Game itself is amoral." Joe leaned forward, warming to his argument. "You know as well as I do, most immortals don't die because of character. They die because they're not as strong, smart, experienced, or lucky as their opponents. Without a level playing field, it just comes down to the fortunes of war."

Joe shrugged. "Hell, I don't know what a quickening is. Maybe science will figure it out someday, if immortals aren't extinct by then. But taking a quickening isn't that different from...from some Aztec eating the heart of his opponent for his courage." His strong voice wavered. "Is it?"

Duncan had seen too many mutilated bodies in Cambodia. He knew Joe wasn't thinking of Aztecs. "Stop, Joe," he said, concerned about what this conversation might be doing to his friend. "Don't—"

Joe sighed, and his deep voice dropped another half-tone. "All killers take the souls of the men they kill. Unlike us, you can't pretend otherwise." He paused. "It's stark, I know. But killing is killing. I've done it. So have millions of others through the centuries. It may make you feel like some kind of an alien, but the fact is, killing is as human as it gets. It's about survival, Mac, in a world you can't control. There's a kind of nobility in that. Every day you face a test of courage and survive, that's a victory."

"That's not enough." At heart, Duncan agreed with many of Joe's ideas, but he could not embrace such a worldview. He needed purpose. Richie needed purpose. "If the Game is only for survival, then we are just cannon fodder. Or killers. It would be 'nobler' to die than to keep on killing for nothing."

"Only if you believe survival doesn't have any value!" Duncan had the impression that Joe would have risen from his wheelchair if that were physically possible. "And Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod has never believed that! It's what sets you apart, Mac. It's why you've never once fallen to your knees and offered up your head, even when you were beaten. Because you believe in the value of living. That's what you have to teach. And, God knows, that's what Richie needs to learn."

Duncan returned his katana to the floor beside his chair. "But if you and Czeslaw are right, and the Game itself is meaningless..." He gripped the arms of the chair, overcome by hopelessness. "How can I accept that? That the thing that has governed my life has been meaningless?"

"Maybe it's meaningless," Joe conceded. "Maybe it's not. When you get down to it, that's not just war, it's life. You think any of us know what it's for, Mac? The ones who claim to have all the answers are scary, if you want my opinion. Your Rule-makers aren't any more distant than God, most days of the week, for most human beings. We go along, telling ourselves we're trying to do right, taking the blows as they come, at the same time we're busy corrupting ourselves trying to climb the greasy pole, sock away our first million, appear on the cover of Rolling Stone, or waltz into the pearly gates. Whatever prize we're aiming for."

"I'm not looking for some bloody prize," Duncan retorted. "What prize could be worth the murder of every single one of my own kind?" He answered his own question. "Nothing, nothing,_ nothing!_" He reached again for the decanter, filled his glass, and then lifted it to Joe. "Do you know what Darius always said when an immortal asked him about the Prize?"

Joe lifted an eyebrow, then nodded. "The sixteenth chapter of Matthew is pretty fascinating stuff for Watchers. Ian wrote a paper on Darius's interpretation of verse 26: 'What profits a man if he gains the whole world, and loses his own soul?'"

There was sweet consolation in knowing that someone had preserved the wisdom of his finest teacher. "Did Ian ever speak to Darius?" Duncan asked. Suddenly it was important to him to hear that there had been a connection.

Joe stared back at him, his face a mask. "No," the Watcher said. "For the same reason you're afraid to get closer to Richie. The same reason I'm afraid to go on watching you. Because it's gonna hurt like hell when death comes knocking on the door."

Duncan swallowed hard. "But you don't need us," he said. "You said it yourself—you have families, and the friendship of other men like you. You have a chance to make a contribution. You have choices."

Joe set his glass down on the bookshelf. "So do you, Mac. Most days you know that. Richie's a long way from dead, you know. He has a lot going for him right now, and most of it is new to him. You've got to focus on that, instead of worrying about what the next fight is going to do to him."

"It's ironic." Duncan gulped more of the whiskey. "All those years Darius tried to convince me that no battle could ever make right prevail...now he's two years in his grave, and I finally discover he was right. I never saw the Game through anyone else's eyes. I never saw it as a parent. The parent of a dying child."

"Damn you! Stop playing the dour Scot and start using the time you've got. Czeslaw chose to die because he could see that Richie had courage—and a father like you to mold it. If he didn't give up on Richie, how can you?" Joe waved one hand, excusing him. "You're just exhausted. You'll see things differently in the morning."

No, Duncan thought. That wasn't it. The last time he and Joe had talked, he had left in a rush, anxious to fix everything that had gone wrong in Richie's life. Now he knew that Richie's wounds were too deep, and his own abilities were too limited, to ever really make things right.

"But I don't know how to help," he confessed. "I don't know what to tell him. Is there some way to justify...God, Joe, I could hardly even bear to listen to what's happened to him." He set his glass aside, too. "All I wanted to do was run from the room, hunt down those men, and tear them limb from limb." He looked up. "I know how to do vengeance, Joe. And those bastards deserve to die."

Joe nodded. "I wouldn't disagree," he said. "But where's it going to get you? You might save the next kid, but what about your kid? The damage is still done."

"Ach," Duncan moaned. "I know. I _know_. But I'm a warrior. I don't know how to be, or teach, anything else. Richie needs...the right words. Someone who understands all this. Someone like Darius."

Joe snorted faintly. "Well, all due respect to Darius, Mac, but that's bullshit. Richie loves you, not some priest he hardly knew." He leaned forward in his chair. "You've held together plenty of immortals when they were falling apart. You can do for Richie what you did for Gregor, or Brian Cullen, or a dozen others."

"Not great successes," Duncan noted. "And they hadn't been through what Richie has. And the Gathering wasn't breathing down my neck." He sighed, knowing that Joe would infer the rest whether he said it or not. "And they were my friends, not the closest thing I'll ever have to a son. If I fail this time..."

"You're guaranteed to fail if you don't get on with the job at hand." Despite the words, Joe's tone was sympathetic. "As I recall, your father raised you to be the leader of the clan—protector, provider, teacher, planner, administrator of justice, comforter of the weak, et cetera. Warrior's only part of the job description, isn't it? You just spent the last week proving how good you are at putting communities back together."

The quake had given Duncan an opportunity to make use of all the skills he'd acquired over the centuries. While organizing rescue workers or making plans in the darkness of the church social hall, he'd felt needed and valued. But when it came to his own little family, he'd felt—he'd been—helpless and alone.

He pulled himself to his feet, towering over Joe in his wheelchair. "I need your help, Joe. I need you to stay in the field and keep the rest of the Watchers at a distance while Richie and I sort all this out. The last thing either of us needs is another Peeping Tom looking over our shoulders." Perhaps it was unfair to hint at the relationship between "Watching" and the people who had stood by and watched Richie be abused, but Duncan didn't care. Getting Joe's assistance was too important. "We need a friend."

"Mac, I can't. I'm worn out. And unlike you, I'm not going to be as good as new in the morning."

"You said I should accept help. So I'm asking—help me. Please. I can't do this by myself."

"You've got Angie and Anne and Willa."

"Richie has them. I need you. You understand this PTSD and the Game, in a way the others don't. And I trust you with Richie, with our secrets."

Joe cleared his throat, obviously touched. "Mac, I'll still be around..."

"No," Duncan said. "I can't keep my distance, and neither can you. We use the time we've got. Because in the end, no matter what we do, Richie is going to die terrified and alone. And if I can stand that, so can you."

"Christ, MacLeod!" Joe still had the capacity for horror. "You don't mince words, do you?"

"Would it help if I did?"

Joe grunted. "No," he admitted. "Come that day, nothing's going to help." He reached over and snapped on a small lamp on the table next to Duncan's chair.

Astonished, Duncan recoiled from the glare. He'd assumed the power was out.

"The city asked us to conserve energy," Joe explained, amused by Duncan's startled reaction. The Watcher squinted and drummed his fingers against the wheels of his chair, his head bobbing to some internal tune. "All right," he acquiesced, after some consideration. "Barring any more earthquakes, I'll stay on."

"Thank you." Duncan would have hugged the Watcher, but he was afraid the action might be taken for drunken bathos. "You don't know what that means to me." He was about to propose a toast when the electric contact of another immortal's quickening sent him rocketing to his feet. "Joe, there's someone here."

"Oh." The Watcher looked more embarrassed than surprised. "I made a phone call." He shrugged at Duncan's bafflement. "Well, it was obvious you were feeling lonely," he said. "At the time, I didn't think _I _was what you needed."

Duncan turned to the doorway. "Amanda," he breathed. He opened his arms, no longer concerned about how anyone might interpret his feelings. "My God, Amanda. You've come back to me."

Her smile was glorious. Duncan savored the vision of it even after Amanda stepped into his embrace. His mouth found hers, and he closed his eyes and opened himself fully to the connection between them, imagining their quickenings, their lives, their souls mingling through the kiss. This is what I want, he thought. Not just words. Not just passion. _Intimacy_. This ability to exchange hope, regrets, and understanding with a touch or a sigh. Joy bloomed inside his heart—not abolishing, but balancing, his despair. Amanda was back. She loved him. He was not alone.

Joe maneuvered his wheelchair around the couple, murmuring something that might have been "See you in the morning" or "Second door on the left" or "Sing a song of sixpence." Duncan didn't know or care.

He felt Amanda laugh and press her hands down against his enfolding arms. Reluctantly, he released her. "Duncan," she said with a throaty chuckle. She took his hand. Apparently she had been more attentive than he; she led him unerringly to Joe's guest bedroom.

As she folded back the duvet on the ridiculously small double bed, he stood spellbound, riveted by the sight of her slender form in motion. Here before him was Shakespeare's ideal, a woman whose beauty time could never dim. And yet...Amanda's cheeks were hollower than they should have been, and there was a new sadness in her eyes, a grief that sparkled into a glint of amusement the moment she noticed his appraisal.

She took his arm and tugged him over to the bed. He let her push him to a seat and pull his sweater off over his head.

"Why did you come back?" he asked, dropping the sweater on the floor. One hand went immediately to her waist.

Her fingers combed the dark locks away from his face. "Joe said you needed me," she said gravely.

Deeply disappointed, he squinted up at her. Was this merely a charity visit then? "I already told you that," he protested.

Amanda kissed his forehead. "This time I believed it," she said with a tender smile. She began to unbutton his shirt.

Duncan blinked. He was so tired. Too tired to express his feelings cautiously or even coherently. "Why did you leave?"

Amanda removed his hand from her waist and slipped the shirt off over his shoulders. "Does it matter?"

God, yes. It mattered. "You think I can't love you," he mourned. "You think I can't forgive you."

"Oh, Duncan." Amanda leaned in to kiss him just above his collarbone. "I know that you love me. Too much."

He tried to capture her in his arms, but Amanda slipped away like smoke. She dropped to the floor to peel off his socks. Duncan watched numbly as she worked the fabric down over his ankles, around his heels, and across his feet. If only I weren't so exhausted, he thought, I could explain that I've changed. I could find a way to make her understand.

"How can I love you too much?" he asked.

Amanda rose from her crouch to kneel between his legs, her back ramrod straight. Duncan was acutely aware of the warmth of her hands resting atop his thighs.

He tried to decipher her expression. There was affection in her smile, certainly—and compassion. Recognizing that she did not want to be kissed, he reached out to massage the taut muscles of her shoulders. Her eyes fluttered closed and she relaxed slightly beneath his touch.

"Amanda?" he asked.

Her right hand abandoned his thigh to touch his cheek and slip down his neck. Something about the gesture made his throat tighten.

"Duncan..." She faltered, then tried again. "Duncan, Joe told me that night in the store, after I left Richie. How you saved me. When you should have saved Richie, you saved me."

He dug his fingers into her shoulders. "No!" he insisted, frightened by her distress. "I can love you both. Don't tell me that I can't."

A tear spilled down Amanda's cheek. "Oh, Duncan, why didn't you tell Richie it was all my fault?"

"Because it wasn't!" He gripped her arms. She was like a stiff-jointed doll in his hands. "It wouldn't have mattered, love. Richie would have done it anyway. Not just for you, for me. He thought he was protecting us from things only he could bear." He laughed over a sob. "Twenty-two years old, and he thinks we're the innocents."

"Oh." Amanda pushed herself to her feet. "Oh, Duncan, it wasn't Richie's fault. You don't know. Don't blame him."

So she expected blame from him, just as Richie had. That was a bitter pill to swallow.

He clasped Amanda's forearm and pulled her down to sit beside him on the bed. "I don't blame you or Richie. I promise you, I don't." He almost repeated "I love you," until he remembered how Richie had reacted to that particular combination of sentiments.

"But I..." Amanda shuddered. "I keep thinking about how you would have felt if Czeslaw had killed Richie." She leaned her head against his shoulder. "And I think about James, hanging from that tree. Because of me. Because of some stupid money."

He put his arm around her and rested his head against hers. He knew there was little he could do to assuage this sort of guilt; he lived with too much of it himself. "Then take the blame for the theft, love, not for the suicide. You're not responsible for that."

"And who is?"

"James," Duncan said. "And Czeslaw," he added without thinking.

"_Czeslaw?_" She pulled away to look at him.

The connection was so clear to Duncan that it hardly needed articulation. "That's why Czeslaw was so vengeful," he explained. "Because James didn't come to him. Because he failed the boy when he most needed help."

Amanda's disbelief morphed into acute concern. "You can't change people, Duncan," she warned. "You can't protect them from themselves. Some things just aren't under your control."

He rose from the bed. "No one knows that better than I do!"

So why did everyone seem to think otherwise? He crossed his arms against his bare chest and struggled to contain his frustration. "For God's sake, don't you think I'd change all this if I could?"

Amanda shifted her weight back onto her hands and gazed up at him. "That's the difference between us, Duncan. You think you could, and should." One corner of her mouth lifted up in a fond smile. "And why shouldn't you think that? You're the kind of man who can do almost anything. A hero."

Unlike Joe, Amanda could say the word "hero" without sarcasm. It didn't help. "I know I'm no hero," he said. "I know I can't fix..." He swallowed. The list was endless. "There's almost nothing I can fix."

She reached out for his hands. He grasped her fingers but didn't allow her to tug him back to the bed.

"I know," she said softly. "I know you've suffered, Duncan. I know you'd like to change the world and can't, even though you keep trying. What I meant to say was...I love you for trying."

"But..." He supplied her next word, the word that negated everything that had come before.

"But I can't live up to you. I'm just not that..._invested _in right and wrong." She squeezed his hands. "I'm sorry, truly, deeply sorry, for what I did to James and Czeslaw, and the others. But I'll probably steal again. Just like I'll go right on avoiding challenges—because it's not my mission to eliminate the immortals who aren't worthy of the Prize. I'm not worthy of the Prize."

"God, Amanda, that's not—"

"I just want to live, Duncan. I don't want to ensure justice, I don't want to change the world. I just want to live and enjoy what the world has to offer."

Did she really expect him to believe that, after all the centuries he had known her? He moved closer and knelt beside the bed, stroking her hand. "Is that why you went after Kalas? Why you did everything in your power to help Methos when he was desperate to save Alexa?" He turned over her hand and kissed the palm. "Is that why you helped Richie through Czeslaw's quickening? Just self-interest?"

Amanda threw her arms around his neck. He pulled her off the bed and onto her knees beside him. "I'm not asking you to change," he said. "I know who you are, I know how much you would do for the people you love. I accept you. Let me prove it."

She was quiet for a moment. "I'm not what you need, Duncan," she concluded. "Not in the long run. You need someone without blood on her hands. Someone who ages and dies and connects you to the world. Their world. Someone who can be your moral compass."

"No," he said. "I don't want to be right, not anymore. I want to be loved, and I want to love you." He nuzzled at her neck. "What do you have to lose?"

"Oh, Duncan." Her voice wobbled, though Duncan couldn't tell whether amusement or grief was the cause. "You know the answer to that."

He certainly did. "I know the Gathering is near," he said. He touched the soft skin at the back of her neck and moved his hand down her body, cherishing the sharp point of her shoulder blade, the curve of her lower back, her muscled hip. "I know almost everyone I love is going to die soon. I just don't understand why I have to lose you before then."

She sighed mournfully but didn't speak.

He ran his fingers through her short, silky hair. Well, he thought, hadn't he begun this encounter wishing for an intimacy that didn't require words? "Come on, love," he said. "My knees are aching." He eased himself and Amanda back up onto the bed.

She wiped her face and smiled at him. He smiled back. "Take this off," he instructed, plucking at the satin tunic that covered her trousers. He felt too clumsy to tackle its fastenings.

Amanda stood and pulled the garment off over her head. She laid it across the bedside table, pulled off her boots, and slipped out of her slim wool pants, leaving them puddled on the floor. She stood before Duncan in a simple black brassiere and panties. She was stunningly, achingly beautiful, her perfection marred only by a slight blurring of mascara at the corner of one eye.

Duncan put a hand to the base of his throat, warmed by the first flush of arousal. "I should probably warn you," he said. "I'm not exactly at my physical peak right now."

"Then let me," she said. "Let me love you."

He nodded, hoping this was what she needed, and not just a gift. A moment later she had him on his feet and was removing his trousers and briefs with easy efficiency. As soon as he was unclothed, he returned to the bed and lay back on the pillows. His eyes drifted closed as he reveled in the long-lost pleasure of clean sheets and a soft mattress beneath his aching muscles.

"You are exhausted if you can't even watch me undress," Amanda said, sliding into bed beside him. "You need sleep." She reached to turn off the bedside lamp.

He stopped her. "Not that tired," he mumbled, smiling at her.

Amanda sat up and examined him. She rested her hand at the same spot on his throat that he had touched earlier, and then ran her fingers lightly down his chest to his navel. He sighed in contentment.

That seemed to be the response she was looking for. She rolled atop him.

Duncan allowed himself to simply lie between Amanda's legs and appreciate her attentions. Where she might ordinarily have teased or demanded, she was gentle. She knew just how hard to pull at his earlobe with her teeth; she knew the spot beneath his jaw where a lick would elicit a moan; she knew where a caress would tickle and where it would soothe. Every inch of every muscle in his back, chest, and arms was kissed or rubbed into glowing warmth.

He looked up at her. Her eyes were nearly closed, her brow furrowed in concentration. The lamplight burnished her skin and hair with gold and cast soft shadows that accentuated the fullness of her breasts. He reached up to thumb one dark nipple.

But even this erotic vision couldn't energize him. He closed his eyes, his mind wandering. Fatigue had its own gifts, he thought fuzzily; a profound sense of love and connection replaced physical arousal. Was it really possible that he could touch Amanda's quickening like this, in the act of love? He slipped briefly into dreams, imagining he had glimpsed some understanding of immortals that had escaped him before. When he woke, Amanda was devoting herself to his hands, kissing and loving each finger.

Had Richie seen this Amanda? he wondered. He hoped so, incestuous though the idea might be. But in all probability Richie had been too mired in Czeslaw's quickening—and too traumatized by his past—to feel safe, much less loved, in Amanda's care. In anyone's care. Ever.

He moaned.

Amanda's lips grazed over the stubble on his cheeks and tugged at his lower lip. Duncan opened his eyes and reached to squeeze her buttock. Amanda laughed and slipped her hand down to assess his erection, stroking and patting with the same familiar expertise she had applied to the rest of his body. "Serves me right for telling someone like you that you're not in control," she said.

He smiled and snatched her hand. "That's not it," he said. "And, as someone else told me tonight, this is not just about me." He rolled her over onto her back and applied his own considerable expertise to kissing her, hard and at length. By the time he released her tongue, her lips were swollen and her breath was coming in pants.

Amanda had never seemed more vulnerable to him. Duncan flashed back to the horrible moment when Czeslaw had raised his sword over her body, determined to lop off her limbs. He couldn't have let that happen. He could never stand by and let that happen.

He planted a grateful kiss on her blessedly unmarked neck. "You're beautiful," he said. "In every way. You don't need to be anything other than what you are. Believe me."

Her eyes were dark and impenetrable. It's odd, Duncan thought. I can be close enough to count the pulse beating in her throat, but I have no idea if she believes me or not.

He nudged one knee between her legs and pulled her over and onto her side, facing him. He grasped her hips, encouraging her to rock against his thigh.

"Tell me," he said. "Tell me what you want. Tell me what I can do."

"Shut up," she said, pressing her hand over his mouth, and he did.

He let her do the work. The sheets rustled as she moved against him, muscles straining. Each time his hands drifted away from her hips she made an unhappy sound. Soon he made no further attempts. He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, and her mouth until she cried out and spasmed against him. He wrapped himself around her, sheltering her, and reached down to pull the duvet up and over them both.

He stroked her hair. "Tell me," he said. "Tell me you'll stay."

She turned her face away. "I can't, Duncan. Richie deserves to have you to himself now. He needs to."

"No, it'll be all right," he said, hoping that this was the only remaining barrier between them. "Things will be awkward for a while, that's all."

"Duncan." Amanda rolled over, putting her back to him. "Duncan, listen to me. When I left Richie that night...when he started to come back to himself...he was horrified."

Duncan sat up abruptly, remembering the condition of Richie's room the morning after, the towel over the chair and the blanket scrunched into a ball and stuffed behind the bookcase. "Was he sleeping? Did you try to cover him with the blanket?"

She nodded into the pillow.

"_Jesus,_" Duncan swore. He should have put two and two together. "Amanda, it wasn't you. It was the blanket. The men who raped Richie as a child used a blanket."

"Oh!" Amanda took a deep, shuddering breath and turned back into his arms. "You know. Oh, Duncan, you know."

He clung to her. "I know," he said. "I've known for a while. I didn't think you did."

She gulped—surprised or mystified—and grabbed his wrist. She placed his hand on her back just above the waist. "Here, Duncan," she said harshly. She moved the hand to the back of her thigh. "He has scars from here to here. How could I not know?"

He heaved a sigh. Amanda had drawn the right conclusion from the wrong evidence. "I didn't think. We never had a chance to talk—you just disappeared."

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I couldn't stay. Not after that."

"I don't think Richie even remembers being upset with you. He's not going to reject you for trying to help." Duncan cupped one hand beneath her head. "He needs us both, love. If he can forgive me for the things I've done...Believe me, you have nothing to worry about."

"It's not going to work." She pushed away from him and left the bed.

He cast aside the bedcovers and stood. "Don't use Richie as an excuse. You can stay."

Amanda stood with her back to him, apparently unmoved.

He stepped closer. "After Tessa died, you came to me and said you wanted to play house for a century. Do you remember that?" He put his hands on her shoulders. "It doesn't have to be a lifelong commitment. Just a century."

"We don't have a century, Duncan." Amanda turned to face him. "Haven't you heard a thing I've said?"

"Yes," he said. "I think you want to stay. I know I want you to. Now all that matters is what Richie wants."

Amanda rolled her head back on her shoulders and closed her eyes. She shrugged. "All right, Duncan," she said finally. "If you think that's best. We'll ask Richie."

***

Richie's nose was cold. Although the Burkes' furnace was working hard, it just couldn't compensate for the cardboard patches that covered two of the living-room windows.

He scooted deeper into his sleeping bag and listened. Sleet no longer pelted against the house. The room was quiet except for the ticking of the mantel clock and the snores of Angie's brother Alan, who sprawled on the couch. In one of the back bedrooms, someone else was awake and moving about.

Richie smiled to himself. Mac would laugh if he ever claimed to be a morning person, but in fact he'd always preferred to be the first one up in the morning. As a kid he'd felt safe in the morning hours—he could get himself up, eat breakfast, and leave for school with or without adult assistance. And there were so many fewer monsters in the daylight.

At some point after he'd moved in with Mac and Tessa, he'd stopped trying to be the first one out the door every day. When he did wake early, he would burrow beneath the covers of his bed and doze as he listened to the familiar progression of morning sounds. First came the buzz of Mac's alarm clock, followed by the creak of the bed and the sound of running water. Mac always showered first. Then he'd wake Tessa. Richie never could make out the words they said to each other, but he came to recognize that the first conversation of the day always followed the same pattern. No matter what might have happened the day before, Mac would find a way to cajole Tessa from her morning grumpiness. Some days they made love. Other days Tessa hopped in the shower alone. Sooner or later the rise and fall of their voices would move into the kitchen, where Mac fought with the coffeemaker and rattled the frying pan while Tessa laughed. Eventually one of them would come knocking on his door, scolding his laziness and lamenting a breakfast gone cold.

Lying on the Burkes' floor, listening to the sounds of the household, Richie longed for a home, a family, and morning rituals of his own. The room over the store was lonely. He wanted to wake up next to Angie. He wanted to make her happy. He wanted to make her breakfast.

His stomach growled in affirmation. He rolled out of the sleeping bag, brushed himself down, and pulled on his shoes. A pack of cigarettes on the coffee table called to him. He told himself the cigarettes weren't his—they belonged to one of Alan's house guests—and he reminded himself how much Angie and Mac disapproved of his smoking. But he was unable to resist the temptation. He tapped one cigarette from the pack and headed for the kitchen.

Before allowing himself to enjoy the cigarette, he started a pot of coffee and set the table for breakfast. Then he sat and took a moment to inhale the rich scent of tobacco and enjoy the feel of the cigarette in his hand. Finally he lit his prize and dragged in each wisp of fragrant smoke.

When he'd extracted the last ounce of comfort from the cigarette, he pushed the butt around his saucer, thinking about what lay ahead of him now. Last night he'd committed himself not only to staying in Seattle but also to getting some professional help. Angie thought she knew what that meant, but she didn't. For starters, where was he supposed to find someone who could help with his problems? It wasn't like he could talk to a mortal about killings and quickenings. And he didn't know any immortal doctors he could trust. Lying on a couch bawling about your childhood seemed like an open invitation for a beheading.

He sighed and got up to pour himself the first cup of coffee. Who was he kidding? It wouldn't have mattered if Darius himself were on the other side of the couch. He was terrified. Just sitting here thinking about counseling made his heart beat faster in his chest. He'd rather walk unarmed into a fight with the biggest, baddest immortal on earth than have to tell his story to anyone else. He'd rather die.

"I was afraid you left." Angie stood in the kitchen doorway in a bedraggled white chenille robe. Her hair was pulled back into a clip. Red-rimmed eyes hinted that she hadn't had a restful sleep.

Richie pushed his chair away from the table and went to her. He kissed her forehead. "I'm not going anywhere, Ange."

She wrapped her arms around him. "But you were thinking about it."

He smiled. "Thinking's allowed."

"Not unless you're thinking about taking me with you."

That was out of the question as long as her family needed her. Richie patted her back. "We can't go anywhere, Ange."

"I know," she sighed. She pulled out of his arms. "I hate being an adult."

"Big-time drag," he agreed. "Where's the up side?"

Angie shuffled over to the table and picked up his coffee cup for a sip. She swirled her left index finger idly through the cigarette ashes that filled his saucer. "I thought about that a lot last night. That, and Mom, and all the stuff we talked about in the car."

"Must have been a rough night."

Angie nodded, not looking at him.

Richie slid into a chair and pulled her into his lap. He fingered the soft curls that coiled at her neck. Angie smelled like Ivory soap and toothpaste, and he wanted her very much.

"Dad wants me to pick out something for Mom to wear," she said. "For the burial."

"Ah," Richie mumbled, ashamed that he could be thinking about making love at a time like this. "I'm sorry, Ange."

She shrugged off his sympathy. "Someone has to do it. It's just...I never expected this."

"I know," he said. "Who does?"

Angie slipped off his lap and into the chair next to his. "Nobody, I guess. I know Dad never expected Mom to die. Even if they did promise to stay together 'till death do us part.'"

Richie captured her hand to keep it from straying back to his saucer-cum-ashtray. "They didn't mean it that way, Ange. Nobody ever thinks 'I'll be married to you until one of us dies.' 'Till death do us part' just means...forever and ever. You know, 'till the rivers all run dry,' that kind of romantic stuff. Not what's really going to happen."

"So there isn't even such a thing as forever?" Angie stared at her sooty finger.

The idea was clearly a troubling one. "Ange." Richie got up to wet a dishcloth and returned to wipe her hand.

"You don't think there is," she said softly.

He folded the cloth into a neat square and placed it on the Formica tabletop. "No, I don't think so," he said. Better Angie should know that now. He wouldn't want her to find out from Mac on the day when he came to her with nothing but a bloody sword and the name of Richie's murderer. He wouldn't want Angie to find out then that immortals' souls went into captivity, not paradise.

"An immortal who doesn't believe in forever." Her eyes crinkled. "That's ironic, isn't it?"

"Maybe it's different for mortals." The evidence was all to the contrary, but then Richie didn't know many people who'd wanted to look at the evidence.

Angie shook her head. "No," she said crisply, as if her mind were made up. "It's not." She stood. "So let's stop wasting time, OK?"

"Wasting time?" Richie echoed.

"Let's eat and go over to the store," Angie said. "We can talk to Willa about moving in together. If it's OK with her, I mean. If it's OK with you."

Richie's jaw dropped. "You mean...but I...I..."

Angie glared down at him, daring him to respond in the negative.

He waved his hands in the air, trying to explain his reservations. "Ange, I never even _dated _anybody for more than a couple months. And you want to live with me? With an immortal? Are you crazy?"

"We've known each other for half our lives. Why should we wait? Besides, I don't want you living at the store alone while you're going through therapy."

Hurt, Richie rocketed to his feet. The chair toppled over behind him. "Oh, that's a great reason to move in with a guy! I'm sure your father will love that!"

Angie's countenance was determined. "You said we can't be together for long. I hope that's not true, but if it is, we can't afford to wait."

"It's too dangerous," he said flatly.

"We already talked about that, Richie."

They had, but living together wasn't what he'd had in mind. He'd thought...well, he'd obviously have to survive the doctors first. Then he'd have to work hard, find ways to overcome all the obstacles that immortality—and poverty—posed to Angie's happiness and security. And by that time, he'd almost certainly be dead. "Ange," he said. "Ange, what's in it for you?"

"You, Richie," she replied, her smile tremulous. "I get you."

Not even close to enough—not when the dangers included death, horror, and loss. Richie picked the dishcloth off the table and walked to the sink, his back to Angie. He draped the cloth over the faucet. Sighing, he leaned forward to look out the kitchen window at the dawn. Three or four inches of fresh snow concealed the boundaries between homes, streets, and sidewalks. In addition, everything from the light poles to the mailboxes was encrusted in glittering ice. The neighborhood could have been a theater set, with no people or machines to disturb the stately quiet.

Richie imagined the ugly tracks he would leave behind if he ran now, the telltale crunch of ice and snow beneath his shoes.

Angie approached and put her hands at his waist. "Richie, last night was one of the longest nights of my life. And it didn't have to be, because you were right there in the next room. Don't tell me that I don't need you. I do, and I don't want to be apart anymore."

He turned to face her. The world outside was dangerous as well as beautiful, but inside there was safety, love, and warmth. However temporary, that was real.

Angie kissed him, and he drew her close. She loosened the sash of her robe, and Richie reached beneath her nightgown to slide his hand up her thigh and massage the flesh of one warm, soft buttock. The clean scent of her skin was intoxicating.

"We can make love in my room," Angie said. "It's OK."

He kissed her neck and then closed her robe and retied the sash. Angie looked up at him questioningly, and he smiled in reassurance. "No, not now," he said. "I want to make you breakfast."

She smiled, then laughed. "I always knew what your priorities were!"

Richie grinned and kissed her again. "Nah, I just want to get over to Willa's before you change your mind."

"Ah!" Angie hopped up happily and threw her arms around his neck. "I'm not going to change my mind, Richie."

"Good." He hugged her. A moment later he was opening every cabinet door, looking for ingredients. With some artful substitutions of oil for eggs and powdered milk for the genuine kind, he put together something akin to pancake batter. He heated a cast iron skillet, poured four perfect cakes, and flipped them expertly when their edges bubbled. When they were ready, he presented Angie with two of the pancakes and a sticky bottle of syrup snagged from the fridge.

"Mmm." She took a large bite. "Where did you learn how to make these?"

"Mac and Tessa. One of them was always forgetting to buy eggs." He winked. "I guess 'cause I was always eating them."

They finished their breakfast quickly, leaving ample pancake batter for the late risers, but lingered over coffee. Angie rose to put their plates in the sink, and then parked a hip against Richie's chair. "I'll just get dressed and then we can go."

"OK." Richie drained his coffeecup. "But first..."

Angie threaded her fingers through his hair. "What?"

"I need you to do something for me." His dropped his head against Angie's side. "See, I know any therapist's probably gonna want me to get a physical, and I have to let Anne examine me anyway before we can sleep together without protection, and that means I have to call her for an appointment, and that means..." He ran out of breath. "But I can't, Ange."

"You want me to call her?"

He nodded against her ribcage.

Angie stretched to reach the kitchen phone, which hung on the wall next to the table. Richie kept one arm around her waist.

She dropped a kiss on the top of his head and dialed the number he recited. "It's going to be OK," she said. "I'll go with you."

***  
  
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	5. Chapter 5

  
  
  
  
  
  


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Ignoring the "Closed" sign tacked to the plywood-covered front window, Duncan pulled open the door to the hardware store and held it while Joe maneuvered over the threshold. Then, anxious to track Richie's buzz to its source, he went on ahead, outpacing the Watcher.

He found Willa working at the back counter under a bank of fluorescent lights. She was muttering to herself as she sorted a box of miscellaneous nuts, bolts, and screws into trays. Little metallic pings accompanied each toss.

"Hello, Willa."

She looked up over her bifocals, surprised. "Mr. MacLeod! I thought you must be Richie."

Duncan smiled. "No, but I am looking for him." Up close, he could see that Willa was attempting to recycle some of the debris that had been swept off the store's floor. His Scottish heart found her frugality endearing.

Willa wiped her hands on an oily cloth before extending one calloused palm. "You brought Richie back," she said. "I'm grateful."

He took her hand and held it between his own. He wanted this woman's friendship and respect, and not only because of what she meant to Richie. "I'd be very honored if you'd call me Duncan."

The harsh overhead lighting recast Willa's smile as a frown. "Duncan," she said, pushing her eyeglasses up her nose with her left hand. "Don't think I've known any other Duncans."

Joe stepped up to join them. He nodded a greeting to Willa. "He's one of a kind, all right."

"That I can believe." She laughed and withdrew her hand. "Well, Richie's next door getting something to eat, M...Duncan."

Instead of rushing off, Duncan hesitated. He wished he could openly solicit Willa's advice. "I know you and Richie are close," he said. "I don't know how much he's told you, but...well, he's going through a tough time right now."

Willa's shrewd eyes flicked over Duncan and then Joe, assessing them. "You think I don't know that boy's been hurt?" she said. "I know."

Duncan nodded. His immortality might confer a deeper understanding of one portion of Richie's life, but Willa had no doubt seen aspects of Richie that were closed to him. "Does he need anything I should know about?" he asked.

Willa sighed. "It doesn't look like I can afford to repair this place. So to begin with, he's going to need a roof over his head."

"Ah," Duncan commiserated. "I'm very sorry to hear that. Very sorry."

"Damn shame," Joe agreed.

Willa disregarded their sympathy and picked up another handful of assorted screws. "It's not the end of the world. I'll be fine. You worry about Richie."

"Yes, ma'am," Duncan said, making a small bow. In another century he would have tipped his hat. "That was our agreement."

Joe thumped his cane against the floor. "So get out of here, MacLeod," he said. "I'll be here if you need a ride back to the house."

***

Richie took a bite of hamburger. He didn't really feel like eating, especially after learning that Willa would have to close the store, but he knew Angie would worry if he didn't.

Angie placed a hand on his jiggling knee, and he realized that his agitation was already clear to her.

"You'll find a job," she said. "We'll find a place. It just might take a while."

He swallowed and bobbed his head. "Yeah. Maybe. But it won't be the same."

"I know," Angie said, patting his thigh. "But you know Willa. She'll be OK."

Richie took another bite of the tasteless bun and chewed deliberately. Willa could run the neighborhood—heck, the city—if she felt like it. She probably would be OK. But the store was the legacy she had built with her late husband; it was Willa's command central. Richie knew she was hurting.

"Are you worried about seeing Anne?" Angie asked.

"Worried?" He tried to smile. Even Willa's bad news hadn't overshadowed that dread. "More like scared shitless. Witless," he corrected. "Scared shitless and witless." He had to force himself not to elaborate any further. He might run jabbering from the restaurant.

"Let's call and cancel. Anne will understand if we don't go today."

"No!" Richie shoved his plate aside. He'd failed this test of courage before, and he didn't want to fail again. "I just want to get this over with. Really, Ange, I don't wanna have to think about it anymore."

"You can't fix everything in a day, sweetheart."

Richie twitched as an electric jolt announced the arrival of another immortal. He pressed a hand against his side, making sure his katana was still concealed inside Duncan's old coat.

"Someone's here," he said, keeping his voice light for Angie's sake. "It's probably Mac. But remember, the church is right across the street."

Angie's chin lifted. "I am not leaving you."

"Oh, yes, you are!" Richie sputtered. "Any time I say so!"

Angie made an outraged noise, but Richie was spared an immediate quarrel by Duncan's entry into the cafe. Ignoring Angie's annoyance, he lifted a hand in greeting. Duncan nodded back at him.

Unlike most of the people in the restaurant, Duncan looked clean and well rested. His hair draped neatly across his shoulders and his stride was confident. There was no sign of either the anger or the exhaustion of the previous day. The Highlander did, however, project an almost visible aura of determined authority.

Whatever Mac had been angry about, Richie knew he wasn't yet off the hook. He watched uneasily as Duncan paid for a cup of coffee at the counter and spoke briefly to Mrs. Sharma and her brother, who were sipping tea at a booth near the door. Finally Duncan approached Richie and Angie's booth against the back wall. He put his cup on the table and then slid into the seat across from them.

"Hey, Mac, you sure look a whole lot better than the last time I saw you."

Duncan rubbed a hand across his smoothly shaved face. "It's amazing what a long sleep and a shower can do."

Angie daubed a muffin crumb from the corner of her mouth. "Hi," she said.

"Hello, Angie." Duncan greeted her with a warm smile.

Like one nanny to another, Richie grumbled to himself. Was this just another daycare handoff? He squashed one of his french fries against the edge of the plate, waiting for Duncan to explain his presence. But he didn't. He just sat there and drank his coffee.

There was no point in trying to outlast Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Richie didn't have that much patience, not even on his best days. "Any word on where Nilsson went?" he asked.

"No."

Duncan's reticence was unnerving. Richie wiped his hands on a paper napkin and surveyed the restaurant. He had chosen the last booth so he could keep an eye on anyone who entered. The other diners were clustered at the counter or in booths near the front, where electric heaters warmed the room. Latin music played from a boom box on the counter, covering all but the loudest of conversations.

Anything Mac wanted to say to him here would be private. So why wasn't he saying it?

"What's up?" Richie prodded.

"Rich..." Duncan stopped. He gazed frankly at Angie, then at Richie.

"I told you, I told her everything," Richie said, feeling defensive. "Say whatever you want."

Duncan nodded and stared into his coffee cup. He seemed uncertain how to proceed. "I'm worried about what Nilsson said to you, Rich, about you being a nothing. I'm worried that you believed that."

Richie wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but it wasn't that. The tension in his shoulders eased a bit. He picked up his own coffee and sagged back against the padded vinyl seat. "That's all you've got to worry about?"

"I'm afraid..." Duncan folded his hands together on the tabletop. "I'm afraid I taught you that—that immortals' lives aren't important. I wonder if I show you that, every time I walk away and let you fight alone."

Richie snorted and plunked his coffee cup on the table. Hot liquid sloshed over his hand. "You are such a horse's ass!"

"_Richie,_" Angie objected.

Duncan's eyebrows lifted. "Care to elucidate?"

"Those are the Rules." Richie spat out the words. "That's the Game. You're the one who said we just have to accept it." He could feel an angry flush rise from his throat to his cheeks, and he wished just once he could be the calm and collected one.

"I know," Duncan said. "But understanding that you have to be prepared to face certain dangers is one thing. Believing that you deserve to die—that your life doesn't count—that's something else entirely."

"Except it doesn't matter what anybody deserves," Richie pointed out. "It's _irrelevant. _Everybody dies but one."

"I know it seems that way." Duncan cast a glance over his shoulder, confirming that no one else was in earshot. "Rich, I had a long talk with Joe last night, about the Game and what it means, or doesn't mean."

Richie sighed and draped an arm over Angie's shoulder. He didn't know why they were talking philosophy at a time like this, but at least Joe had given him a name for his own perspective. "It's Darwinian, Mac. Survival of the fittest. That's all."

"Hmpf," Angie snorted, signaling her disapproval. Richie could see that Duncan wasn't pleased with his point of view, either.

"Even if that's true," Duncan conceded with a scowl, "I still have to find some meaning of my own in the Game. In my _life_. I'll make it up if I have to."

That was no news to Richie. He grinned and picked up his coffee again. "C'mon, Mac, you already got it—saving damsels in distress. Avenging the innocent. Making the world safe for democracy."

Angie elbowed Richie in the side for this bit of mockery. She leaned forward, encouraging Duncan to respond.

A faint smile creased Duncan's face, as if he knew how foolish he was about to sound. "I mean making the world safe for my clan, Richie. Safe for you."

Richie gurgled, choking on his coffee. Duncan passed him a napkin.

"Look, I appreciate the offer, Mac." Richie coughed, smiled at the ridiculousness of it all, and wiped his mouth. "But no way are you protecting me. You won't have to. I'm gonna get myself together so I can handle things right."

"Yes?" Duncan asked.

OK, so Mac had reason to be skeptical. "I know you think I'm fucked up," Richie said. "And I guess that's just about right. But I promised Ange I'd get some professional help, and I will. So I'll be taking care of my own problems. You aren't fighting for me. Got it?"

Duncan didn't answer the question. He frowned. "I think counseling is a good idea, Rich, but who will you see? You need an immortal, or someone who knows about us. Talking about the abuse is important, but you need to talk about the things you face every day, too. It's all part of the same puzzle."

"I'm gonna see Anne this afternoon," Richie said, brushing aside Duncan's concerns. "She can give me a referral to someone in town, maybe at Angie's clinic. That's what I want to do." God knows, the past was more than enough for him to deal with right now.

"No, Rich, let me find someone for you." Duncan was adamant. "I'll call Grace. You two hit it off, remember? She's a doctor, and she doesn't fight. Maybe she could help you, or at least recommend someone. Or we could try Darius's community. There are still a few priests there who know about immortality."

"No priests!" Richie said, his voice rising high enough to attract glances from other restaurant patrons. He didn't care. He was not going to describe quickenings to anyone who was too pure to know what the hell he was talking about. Mac better get that through his thick skull right now.

Duncan glared at him. "Richie, you can_not _expect counseling to help if you go into it planning to lie!"

"Hey!" Angie interjected. "Would you two stop yelling at each other?"

Duncan sat back, looking surprised. "I apologize," he mumbled.

"Yeah, me too," Richie said with a quick smile. Maybe Angie did have some of Tessa's qualities after all.

Duncan sipped at his coffee for a while before speaking again. "There's Anne," he suggested. "She's not a therapist, but she is a doctor. She knows a lot about immortals, and you can trust her."

Richie fiddled with his plate, pushing it back and forth between his hands. "I can talk to her," he conceded. "But not about all of it. Part of it, maybe."

"And there's me," Duncan offered diffidently. "We could talk about the issues you go over with the real therapist, the things that relate to immortality. If you want."

"I don't think so," Richie said cautiously, not wishing to hurt Duncan's feelings. "I mean, you've been great, Mac, this whole time. Beyond great." He kept his eyes on his plate. "But I know what they're gonna make me do—talk about who, what, where, when, why. I know you, Mac. You don't want to hear the details. Trust me."

Duncan gripped his forearm, bringing the fidgeting to a halt. Richie looked up into warm brown eyes.

"You can live through it but I can't listen to it?" Duncan asked. "I've never been sexually abused, Rich, but I've endured just about every other gruesome thing that can happen to a man. Anne believes I have PTSD, too."

Sure, Richie thought, no difference except you never lost your honor. No difference except you can beat PTSD on your own terms, and I can't.

Duncan squeezed his arm. "I'm not saying I can be objective," he admitted. "I can't. It'll be hard for me to hear your story, Rich, but that has to be my problem. Don't make it yours. I'll handle it. I'll talk to Grace or Anne or someone else if I have to." He released his hold on Richie. "Please, Richie. Let me help."

Richie looked to Angie for advice. "I think it might work," she said. "It'd be good if you had one person who could do it all, but Duncan and Anne and a therapist might be OK. You'll have me, too. Maybe Joe? And Willa—even if you can't tell her about immortals, you know she'll always be there for you."

"Aw, damn," Richie grumbled. This was too much. He passed both hands through his short hair. "Why does it have to be so complicated? Why am I falling apart now, when I've held it together this long?"

"I guess you're just a complicated guy," Angie said, gently teasing him. She kissed him on the cheek.

"And you're in love," Duncan observed. "You're getting your feelings back. All of them."

It figured he couldn't even fall in love without getting himself in trouble. "Yeah, well, I wish I could just take the _good _feelings," Richie griped. He felt himself blush under Duncan's sympathetic gaze. "Angie and me," he confessed. "We're thinking about living together. If we can work it out."

"That's wonderful," Duncan said, a slow smile working up from his lips to his eyes. "Congratulations."

"We were gonna ask Willa if we could both live above the store," Angie said wistfully. "But she just told us she can't afford to fix it up again. The deductible on the earthquake insurance is like $20,000."

"Willa told me." Duncan reached inside his coat for an envelope and pushed it across the tabletop. "As it happens, I might be able to help."

Richie opened the envelope flap and pulled out the slip of paper inside. He breathed in sharply. "You want me to give this to Willa? You know she won't take your money."

Duncan shook his head. "No, that's not what I had in mind. Joe took me to the bank before I even talked to Willa."

Angie leaned over to look at the cashier's check. "Wow," she breathed. "I can't even find an ATM that can give me twenty bucks, and you're cutting checks for $100,000?"

"So what's it for?" Richie asked.

Duncan smiled. "It's for you, Rich. It's a down payment on your inheritance. Once financial services are up and running again, I'll be signing over half of everything I have to you."

"Oh, my God!" Angie gasped.

Richie couldn't drag his eyes off the check. He sounded out the machine-printed amount. One hundred thousand dollars and no cents. He wanted it. God, he wanted it so much. "No," he said. For a moment he wasn't sure he'd been able to force the syllable out.

"Yes," Duncan said firmly. "Immortals being what they are, it makes no sense to wait until I die to pass you my estate. I don't want you ending up like James, and I don't want you forced out on the streets again." He stabbed a finger at the check. "Take it, Richie. You and Angie need a secure place to live while you're here. Whether you fix up the store for that purpose or not is up to you."

There was no denying he needed the money. But Richie couldn't take it like this. Not more charity. Not from Mac. "It feels wrong," he said.

"You wouldn't let me do without something that you had in abundance, would you? The dollars are meaningless to me. Why not take the money now, when it can ease my mind and make your life more bearable? Is your pride more important than that?"

"Pride?" Richie bridled. "I just don't want to keep taking from you. I have to make it on my own someday."

"You've had to do too damn much on your own. You're not some pampered kid who's due for a lesson in the way the world works. There may come a time when the money keeps you safe, buys you a sword, or airfare, or whatever you need to stay alive. I think you know that means more to me than any zeros at the end of my bank account."

"Richie," Angie said. "I think he means it. He wants you to take it."

"Aren't you afraid of what I'll spend it on?" Richie asked, his mind racing. "I mean, think of the possibilities. CDs, cigarettes, motorcycles..."

"No," Duncan said emphatically. "That's not what I'm afraid of at all."

Richie knew what he was afraid of. "Rich guys get whacked, too."

"I know that," Duncan responded without missing a beat. "It makes something like money seem pretty unimportant, doesn't it?"

Richie slipped the check into the envelope and put it back on the table. He pondered. "Willa and I could really do something with the store," he ventured. "Angie could go to grad school."

"And you could pay for that hole you put in my car."

Richie chuckled, his mind made up. He folded the envelope and tucked it into his jeans pocket. "Hell, no. I can fix that myself!"

They all laughed.

"Thank you," Angie said, favoring Duncan with a wide grin.

"Yeah, thanks, Mac," Richie added. "Thanks a lot." He grinned. "Wow. I could buy anything on the menu!"

"My pleasure," Duncan said, laughing. "And since you need to put on at least twenty pounds, I'd recommend you get started."

"OK, hon, you eat." Angie gave Richie a gentle shove. "Let me out and I'll call Anne."

"Oh, damn." Richie made a face. It had been nice to forget about that for a few minutes. "Nah, Ange. Let's do it today. It'll be all right." He turned to Duncan. "Is it OK if I keep the T-Bird a little while longer?" he asked. "I'm supposed to see Anne this afternoon."

"Sure," Duncan said. "But Anne could probably make a referral over the phone."

Richie rubbed at his neck. This was how it started. Deeply personal information becoming the topic of casual conversation. He hated it already.

Angie looked to him for permission. Richie lifted one shoulder in a resigned shrug. "Anne needs to examine Richie for STDs," Angie explained.

"Oh."

Richie watched Duncan's face as he processed the information, calculating the risks for someone who had been raped ten years before by two, possibly three, men. It was clear from his expression that immortality was not going to protect Richie from anything he'd contracted as a mortal. Anne had been right on that score._Shit. Oh, shit._

"Relax, Mac," Richie said. At least he could remove the biggest fear. "I already got tested for AIDS. That's why I went to see Anne in the first place."

Duncan exploded. "My God, Richie, you went through that alone? Why didn't you tell me?"

"It turned out OK. I chickened out on everything but the blood test."

Duncan took a deep, steadying breath. "But now you're going back."

Richie put his hand over Angie's. "Have to," he said. "Have to make sure Angie's safe." He knew Duncan would understand that.

"Of course." Duncan slid out of the booth. "You keep the car. I can hitch a ride with Joe."

Richie stood and Angie scooted out after him. He helped her into her jacket before fastening the toggles on his own coat. "Mac," he said. "If you've got the time...I was kinda wondering...if maybe you could come with us."

He thought he heard a catch in Duncan's voice. "Yes," Duncan said. "I'd like to do that, Richie."

***

Angie leaned against the window frame in Anne's office, a curtain of dark hair veiling three-quarters of her face. She pressed her cheek to the glass, apparently fascinated by the cold drizzle that was dissolving the icy fantasyland outside.

Like Angie, Duncan couldn't sit. Nor could he stand. As the room wasn't large enough to pace, he made a slow circuit of the office, examining every object within it as carefully as a forensic analyst at a crime scene. He could have described every item in Anne's wastebasket, the titles of the medical journals on her shelves, the few personal mementos that graced her desktop.

Angie spoke without turning away from the window. "He's scared," she said. "He went through this before, when _that man _drove him here." The enmity in her dulcet voice, deflected by the glass, sounded a deeper and darker chord in Duncan.

He plucked a picture of Mary Lindsey off the desk and scrutinized the photo as if the baby were on the FBI's most wanted list. "You know who he is," he suggested silkily.

Not taken in, Angie flashed him a bleak smile. "I don't think Richie even knows. He was just one of the bastard's playmates."

The bastard. That was how Richie always referred to his chief tormenter. Shaken, Duncan spread his hands flat on Anne's desk and leaned forward, resting his weight on his palms. He stared vacantly at the wood-grain laminate for a moment before dragging in a restorative breath. "And the bastard? You know who he is?"

"Of course." Angie reached for the arm of Anne's chair and pulled it toward her. She sank into it. "I see him at the market sometimes," she said in a quiet, controlled voice.

"_He's here?!"_ Duncan sprang to his full height. "Where? Who? _I'll kill him!_"

Angie swiveled the chair to the left, the right, and back again. Her eyes were on her shoes. "Good," she whispered fiercely. "Good."

Anne pushed open the office door. If she had heard Duncan's threat, she gave no indication of it. She placed Richie's medical chart on her desk. "OK, we're done," she announced. "It was a little rough, but it's over."

Angie stood up. Her fingers clenched in the fabric of her jacket. "Where is he?" she asked, her voice taut. "I want to see him."

"He's getting dressed, Angie. Why don't you and I go get a cup of coffee and let Richie have a few minutes?"

Duncan turned away as Anne shepherded the younger woman toward the door. He knew he had no inherent right to hear whatever the doctor wanted to say to Angie.

He felt a tug at his arm. "Exam 2," Anne said, sotto voce. "Go sit with him." With no further explanation, she vanished out the door.

More worried than ever, Duncan reached inside his trenchcoat to touch the dragon head of his katana, his natural response to any threat.

He growled, rebuking himself. "Bloody fool." A coat and a sword were the last things Richie needed right now. He shucked off the trenchcoat without a second thought and stashed it and his sword behind Anne's desk.

A nurse's aide directed him to the examination room. Duncan knocked on the door and waited for Richie's quiet "Yeah?" before entering and closing the door behind him.

Richie was already dressed. He slouched on a white plastic chair, forearms propped on his thighs, hands dangling loosely between his knees. Perspiration darkened his hairline, plastering his short curls into a sweaty band that circled his face. He looked like a runner who had expended far too much on the marathon to take any pride in completing the race.

And the race has only begun, Duncan thought. "Rich?" he asked.

"Yeah?" Richie's head lifted, but his eyes didn't actually focus on Duncan. Instead they looked beyond him, through the wall, through the hospital corridors, out to some haven in the gray December clouds. Duncan had seen that thousand-yard stare before, on battlefields and in hospital wards, in the eyes of dozens of young men no older than Richie. He'd even worn that look himself.

He grabbed the only other chair in the room, straddled the seat, and folded his arms over the chair's back. His head dipped close to Richie's. "How'd it go?" he asked, consciously dropping into the warm and gentle tones that Darius, Ceirdwyn, and Sean had used to soothe away his own horrors.

One side of Richie's mouth curled up in a lopsided smile. "Fine."

Duncan nodded and waited patiently for Richie to say something more. But he was silent, unmoving, hardly even a presence in the room.

"When you're ready," Duncan said, "Angie and Anne are waiting for you."

Richie swallowed. "I need a minute," he explained to the wall. That crooked, self-mocking smile flitted across his face again. "The last time I tried, I couldn't stand up."

Duncan reached out and rubbed a thumb across Richie's forehead. He brushed the back of his fingers down the side of Richie's face and let his knuckles rest against one fevered cheek. "You can have as many minutes as you want," he said.

Richie returned his attention to the hospital linoleum for another minute or two. Then he rubbed his palms against his jeans. "At least she didn't laugh," he said, attempting a casualness he couldn't begin to carry off.

"Anne?" Duncan asked, indignant on both Richie and Anne's behalf. "Of course she didn't laugh."

Richie's head snapped up. His eyes scorched a path through Duncan. "_He _did," Richie said venomously. "He got a real kick out of those scars. Said they just showed that I was...I was..."

Duncan grasped Richie's shoulder, willing him to go on. He didn't give a damn if rage, hate, or fear was fueling the incandescent blue of those eyes—he wanted to fan that flame. Anything, _anything _was better than the empty stare of the dead.

But the fire burnt out as quickly as it had leapt to life. Richie brushed Duncan's arm aside and slumped back into the chair. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. "Nope," he concluded with a laugh that rattled hollowly inside his chest. "I am _not _finishing that sentence."

I should know this, Duncan thought. I know that I should. He racked his brain, searching for the elusive reference. "We're all perverts," Richie had said once, when pressed about his hostility to Czeslaw. But an abuser wouldn't have said that to a child, would he? No, no, it was something else, something Richie had said that night in the dojo, trying to justify the Game to Angie.

"_Fair game,_" Duncan supplied. His elation at successfully recovering the memory winked out in half a second. "Children like you were fair game." A superficially polite way of saying that they were worthless nothings in a world that had no place for them. Chattel, Joe had called them. Cannon fodder.

"That's what he said, wasn't it, Rich?"

Richie bared his teeth in a sinister imitation of a smile. "Actually, it wasn't half that nice, Mac."

Duncan clutched the chair and dropped his head onto his arms. Oh, God, help. This was so hard. How was he ever going to erase a legacy like that?

Richie sighed. "He was right, Mac," he said. "That is what I am."

"_No!_" Duncan pushed himself up off the chair. To hell with Richie's fears or his own. Such an assertion could not be allowed to stand. It had to be annihilated, immediately.

He dragged in a breath and put his hands on Richie's shoulders, offering a blessing—and steadying himself. Richie looked up at him, puzzled and uneasy.

"You are my son," Duncan declared. The "are" rolled across his tongue in the manner of his youth. He dropped to a crouch beside Richie's chair. "Those were almost the last words my mother said to me," he explained urgently. "And she meant them—even after she knew I wasn't mortal, even when my whole clan reviled me as a demon." Including my father, he remembered bitterly, the pain still deep after all these centuries.

He would do better by his own son. "You were not born to be prey in_ anybody's _game. You were born to be my son, Richie. You only have to agree."

Richie was white-lipped, regretful. "I can't be, Mac. You don't know what you're getting. You don't know me."

Duncan laughed. He reached back for his chair, pulled it around, and eased into the seat. "After all this, you think I don't know you?"

However ludicrous the proclamation seemed to him, Richie was deadly serious. "What I mean is, you think a year or two in therapy and presto-chango, I'm all straightened out. Ain't gonna happen, Mac."

Duncan leaned forward and gripped Richie's knee. "Why is that?"

Richie shrugged, embarrassed. "You were right," he admitted. "I traded away some stuff I shouldn't have...parts of me...my honor, maybe. Something like that. The doctors can't get that back, Mac." His eyes met Duncan's, telegraphing honesty, solemnity, acceptance. "No matter how long I live, it's never coming back."

Duncan took Richie's right hand and clasped it firmly between his own—not a girlish gesture but a handfasting, a binding of family. "It wasn't your honor that you lost," he said. "It was your innocence. Most of us lose it sooner or later, Rich, but usually not at so high a price."

Richie tried to withdraw his hand, but Duncan wouldn't allow it.

"It's more than that," Richie insisted, his voice rising. "You keep saying how I'm never gonna hurt anybody, that I can control it. But you know what I did with Amanda, and what I would have done with Chet, so why don't you just stop kidding yourself? The kid I was before never would have done that. He didn't kill people, either. But I'm not him anymore. I never will be."

Duncan bowed his head over their clasped hands. He had seen enough of life to know that even when suffering ennobled, it often degraded as well. It was foolish, a parent's blind hope, to believe that Richie was immune to permanent injury. Some losses were simply irretrievable.

He blinked away the dampness in his eyes and squeezed Richie's hand. "I never knew that other Richie," he said, yearning for the power to expunge that lost child from Richie's memory forever. "The only Richie I've ever known is the one who broke into my store, and as it turns out, that's the Richie I love. The messed-up one. The human one. The one who's always stood by me."

"_He _said he loved me," Richie said softly.

Of course he had. What monster would pass up a weapon of such power? "You're wiser now," Duncan said. "You know the truth."

"The truth?" Richie summoned a half-smile from some hidden reserve. "The truth is I'm scared. Let me go, Mac."

Duncan released his hand and Richie rose clumsily to his feet. He stumbled backward, reached for the counter, and knocked over a container of medical supplies. Bandaids and throwaway thermometers wafted to the floor. "Damn," Richie muttered, staring at the mess.

Duncan stood, too. "Forget that," he commanded. "I need an answer, Richie."

Richie blinked at him, not comprehending.

"Ach," Duncan grumbled at himself. He linked his fingers behind his aching neck. Seldom had he ever felt so acutely self-conscious, so hugely vulnerable. "I want to know if..." He stopped, dropped his hands to his side, and sent a wordless prayer winging into the void. "Do you...what do you want, Rich? What do you feel?"

Richie slumped back against the counter. He shook his head. "I can't say it, Mac. Don't make me. I can't."

Was that the only difficulty? The knot in Duncan's chest loosened. He cupped Richie's head in his hand and then used that grip to propel Richie into an embrace.

Richie leaned into him, openly welcoming his affection. "Mac, I'm sorry, I wish I could, but I can't."

Duncan smiled, content. "You think I need words?" he asked. "When it comes to love, you give a damn vivid demonstration."

Richie laughed quietly and sniffed into Duncan's shirt. "Always take the hard way, that's my motto."

"Hmm." Duncan suspected he was going to be spending years defining when and why self-sacrifice was warranted—and when it was _not_. He just hoped they both had years.

In the meantime, he had a much more pressing problem. He cleared his throat. "I want to ask you a favor, Rich. But only if you can. Only if it doesn't matter to you."

Richie pulled away and wiped an arm across his eyes. He grinned. "OK, OK, I'll pay for your damn dry cleaning!"

Duncan touched a hand to the damp spot on his shirt. "Funny," he said wryly. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pants pocket and handed it to Richie. Richie blew his nose.

"No," Duncan said. "I want to ask—if you can—don't tell me this bastard's name. Ask Angie not to tell me. Not yet. Not for a while."

"Like you'd go after him," Richie scoffed, tossing Duncan's linen handkerchief into the trash can. "He's a mortal, Mac."

Duncan was silent. One didn't have to be immortal to be a demon.

Richie paled. "I can't testify, Mac. Call me a coward, but I can't explain all that stuff in court. I can't. I can't even get the facts straight."

A trial might be Anne's idea of justice, but it certainly wasn't Duncan's. Nor would he choose to visit such an ordeal on Richie. "Under the circumstances, it's probably better if you don't testify," he said calmly. "You'll be 30 by the time a court ever gets involved."

"Are you going to kill him?"

"I don't know," Duncan said simply. It was the truth. "But you're my responsibility now, Richie, and so is this man. I have to make sure he never does this again. And I will. I don't want you to worry about it, though. Your job is getting well."

"You're supposed to be around to help."

Duncan smiled. "I know. I won't let anything interfere with that, I promise."

Richie nodded, accepting Duncan's authority. "OK. I guess that's OK." He sighed and scrubbed a hand across his face. "Let's go see Anne. I want to get out of here."

***

"How certain are you that immortals respond to antibiotics?" Anne asked, swiveling her desk chair to stare at Duncan. He leaned against the office wall, arms folded across his chest, while Richie and Angie occupied the chairs in front of the doctor's desk. To Duncan's surprise—and gratification—Richie had just assumed that he would be part of this conversation.

"Very certain," he answered. Twentieth-century science had freed many an unfortunate immortal from syphilis and its cousins. "It's just that we don't have any _need _for medication unless we were ill before our first death."

"What if a pre-existing problem isn't curable by conventional medicine?"

Duncan sighed, annoyed. Anne was determined, as always, to get the facts. He just wished Richie didn't have to listen to this right now. "If the immortal had an acute illness—like a cold, or smallpox—at his first death, then it would just run its normal course. Conceivably he could even die, temporarily, from the disease. If it's a chronic illness, though...Well, at least the condition won't get any worse." Small comfort. The Rules were a joke to those whose immortality froze them in the grip of an untreatable chronic disease. Headhunters sought out such easy kills, just as they sought out immortals who had been trapped in childhood.

"Presumably such a lingering infection would still be transmissible."

"Yes," Duncan conceded begrudgingly. Angie's bright eyes met his, and she nodded slightly, acknowledging the information. Richie's gaze never strayed from the diplomas that hung on the wall behind Anne's desk.

"What about infections after the first death?" Anne asked.

"Generally, they're overcome so quickly you'd hardly know you were sick," Duncan said. That, at least, had to be some comfort. He made a direct plea for Richie's attention. "You'll never have to go through an exam like this again, Rich," he promised. "For as long as you live."

"Assuming today's tests come back negative," Anne corrected. "If we find anything, there will be treatment and follow-up. But as I said, Richie, I didn't find any overt evidence of a problem. So I'm hopeful. In the meantime, until we know for sure, you and Angie should continue to take precautions."

"Don't worry," Angie said, patting Richie's hand atop the armrest of his chair. "We'll be careful."

Richie looked away from the far wall to smile at Angie. "Are we done?" he asked Anne.

"I think you're done for today," Anne said. "I just want to talk to Duncan for a minute."

"Great," Richie said, practically leaping from his chair. "Come on, Ange." The office door closed behind the couple with a whoosh.

Duncan pushed himself away from the wall to sprawl in one of the chairs in front of Anne's desk. He and the doctor smiled at each other.

"Thank you for seeing Richie on such short notice," he said. "It couldn't have been easy to squeeze in with everything you have on your plate these days." He paused, remembering Richie's condition immediately after the exam. "It couldn't have been easy, period."

"It was important to do it when he was ready," Anne replied matter-of-factly. "I was surprised it was so soon—and glad. You and Angie made it possible for him, I think."

"Thank you," Duncan said softly, warmed by Anne's compliment. He sighed. "But it's going to be a long road, isn't it?"

"Yes," Anne agreed. "Healing the body is the easy part. And even that doesn't always work perfectly."

Duncan sat up straight. "You think he does have a problem?"

Anne shook her head and did her best to reassure him. "There's no way of knowing anything like that until we get the lab results. Try not to worry too much, Duncan."

"When he was abused by three violent molesters, one of whom had prison connections?" Duncan said. "I _have_to worry."

Anne frowned and was disturbingly quiet.

"What?" Duncan asked, his fears burgeoning.

"Well, what I was really wondering was...is there any way to repair scarring in an immortal?" Anne asked. "Would new skin heal perfectly?"

Duncan closed his eyes for a second. Immortality's gifts were always balanced by its woes. "No," he said. "Old scars never heal properly."

"Ah," Anne sighed regretfully. "That's something the therapist will need to address, Duncan. Most trauma victims already feel set apart from humanity. When they're visibly disfigured, they don't have the luxury of struggling privately with their emotions. They have to deal with other people's reactions as well—for the rest of their lives."

"Disfigured?" Duncan said, hating the very sound of it. "That's a harsh word."

"It's accurate as far as Richie is concerned. Those scars are like a mark of Cain to him. They tell the world he's imperfect. Defiled."

"Inhuman," Duncan muttered. Yes, Richie clearly felt that way.

"It's not true, of course," Anne said. "Richie did what he had to do to survive, regardless of what society might find acceptable. That's what you do, too, Duncan, in coping with the Game. PTSD is as much a spiritual crisis as an emotional one. You and Richie have had to face the gap between your own values and the way the world really works. And you've had to live with that knowledge, without any of the illusions that protect the rest of us. That's an incredible challenge."

Did this mean Anne had come to accept him as he was? Duncan had never hoped to see that day. "You think we're essentially human then?"

"Of course you're human, Duncan. I'd stake my reputation on that."

Having given his handkerchief to Richie, Duncan was forced to draw a tissue from the box of Kleenex on Anne's desk. He smiled at his own emotionalism and blew his nose noisily. "Thank you. Thank you for everything you've done for Richie, and for me." He dropped the tissue in the waste can and leaned forward in his chair. "I realize now what a fool I was, when we were dating. I should have talked to you about all of this. I'm sorry that I didn't."

"It's all right." Like Duncan, Anne seemed on the verge of tears. "In the end, it wasn't the not knowing that mattered. It was the killing. You couldn't avoid it, and I could. It was as simple as that."

Duncan reached across the desk to take her hand. "I'm going to do my best to stop it," he vowed.

The stupefaction on Anne's face made him laugh out loud. Where the hell had that pronouncement come from? he wondered. How could he have made such an outrageous decision without even thinking about it?

Because it hadn't come from his head, he realized. It was from his gut—no, his heart. The Game be damned, he wasn't ever going to choose between Amanda and Richie's lives, not ever again. He wasn't going to let Richie be devastated by another quickening while he stood by. And he wasn't going to go on fighting a war that meant nothing to him, just for the sake of honor. "There can be only one" was an unforgivably crass standard for a man who protected a clan.

"I don't expect to succeed," he explained to Anne. "I might make things worse. But this time I'll be fighting for something I care about—my family. Not a prize. Not some outdated code meant for young male warriors." God knows, he'd done everything in his power to keep Richie from going back to war, but he knew that wasn't going to be enough. So he'd damn well better stop the war.

He smiled. "Besides, it'll make Connor laugh." And Methos fume, he added to himself. "That's worth something in itself."

Now Anne was the one who was worried about consequences. "What will you do, Duncan? Will you break the Rules?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I suppose I'd better start by rereading Darius's letters. He had all sorts of ideas for ending the Game. I'll see if I can honor his memory now the way I should have from the beginning."

Anne stood up, and Duncan rose with her. "I'm sure Darius was a great man, Duncan. But you're the hero here."

He grimaced. That awful word again. "How can it be 'heroism' to protect what you love and need the most?"

"I don't know," Anne said, smiling. "But I know it is."

Unsure how to respond to that, Duncan lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips.

"Go on, now," she said. "I'm sure Richie is anxious to get home."

Home. Where was Richie's home now? That was an issue Duncan hadn't yet confronted, and it was long past time. He gathered his coat and sword from behind Anne's desk, kissed her cheek, and took his leave.

He found Richie and Angie at the far end of the corridor, sitting on some uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs and arguing good-naturedly.

"Mac!" Richie still looked pale, but he had recovered some portion of his usual energy and confidence. "Mac, how much do you know about Darwin?"

That was hardly the question Duncan had expected. "I read the book," he responded, half-jokingly. That had been...what? More than a hundred years ago?

"So it's about survival of the fittest, right? Only the strongest survive."

"No," Angie countered. She looked to Duncan for help.

Duncan wanted to oblige, but he was a little uncertain on the details of Darwin's theory. "Well, the ones that can adapt survive," he qualified. "Is that what you mean, Angie?"

She shook her head impatiently. "It's not about _ones! _That's not what matters. It's whether your children survive. That's the only thing that counts."

Duncan laughed. _Of course. _He grinned at Angie. "She's got you there, Rich," he said. "She's absolutely right." On an impulse, he picked Angie up and hugged her. She crowed in delight.

"Two against one," Richie complained. "I'm never going to win any arguments."

"'Fraid not, tough guy," Duncan said, swatting the back of Richie's head. "Better get used to it."

"I guess I can live with it," Richie sighed. "But can we please please please get out of here?"

"In a minute," Duncan said, growing serious again. "There's something we need to talk about first." He paused. "You should know that Amanda's back. She spent last night with me at Joe's house."

Angie reached for Richie, putting her arm around his waist, and he pulled her in close. The two of them looked as if someone had just blinded them with a camera flash.

"She knows it would be difficult if she were to stay," Duncan said. Face-to-face with Richie and Angie, he found this wasn't a favor he could ask for after all. "She won't stay," he said quietly.

A long moment passed before Angie looked up at Richie, and the couple exchanged some unspoken message.

"Nah, she should stick around, Mac," Richie said. "I figure you need her."

Truer words were never spoken. "I do, Rich," Duncan admitted, feeling humbled by Richie's—and Angie's—generosity. "Thank you. Thank you, too, Angie."

"Guess I won't be staying at Joe's, though," Richie said. "That's OK. I can go back to the store now."

"No!" Angie and Duncan said simultaneously.

Richie laughed at them. "Hey, you guys can let me off the leash now."

Duncan quirked an eyebrow at Angie. "You have a leash?" he asked enviously.

She giggled.

"Don't spend tonight alone," Duncan said. He could only guess at the kind of nightmares Richie might have after today. "In fact, why don't you hold off on moving in until you've had a chance to renovate the store?"

Richie made a face. "Mac, I haven't even talked to Willa about that yet. She might not want to. And I can't sleep on Angie's floor for months while it gets done, anyway."

Duncan thought about other options. Much as he wished Richie would stay with him, he knew it would probably be quite some time before Richie was comfortable around Amanda. And there was no sense in adding to his stress load. "Amanda and I can move back into the dojo," he said. "I'm sure Joe would put you up for a while." It wasn't an ideal solution, but at least Richie would have a bed of his own, and he wouldn't be alone at night. Duncan and Amanda could live without power for however long was necessary. Or, more likely—considering Amanda—move into a hotel.

"Don't you think the Watchers are gonna think that's a little weird?"

Angie interrupted their debate. "Just stay at our house tonight, Richie," she said. "I'll tell Dad about our plans, and we can move into the store together. Tomorrow, if you want."

Richie sighed, obviously unhappy with his choices. "OK," he said. "But just for tonight."

Duncan nodded his approval. "And tomorrow night..." He paused to think. "I'm sure no one feels like a party right now, but tomorrow is my 404th birthday. Why don't we all have dinner at Joe's house and observe the winter solstice? We'll invite Willa, so there will be six of us. You can get your first meeting with Amanda out of the way."

Judging from Richie and Angie's expressions, neither one of them thought that Willa and Joe would be an adequate buffer. Still, Richie couldn't quite manage to refuse Duncan on his birthday. Eager to draw his family together, Duncan pressed his advantage.

"It'll be all right," he pledged. "The solstice is the darkest day of the year, but every day afterward gets a little lighter." He put one hand on Richie's shoulder and the other on Angie's. "We'll get through this—all of this. Together."

***

Duncan slid a hand up Amanda's back, offering comfort and support. She sat stiffly in the chair next to him—and across from Richie—with a half-smile plastered on her face. She wore a high-necked black gown that, Duncan was sure, was the closest thing to dowdy she'd purchased in the last thousand years. He marveled at her ability to find such a thing in post-quake Seattle on one day's notice.

He worked a bit of flank steak and potatoes onto his fork and took a moment to savor the aroma before consuming it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a hot meal. "This is better than any prime rib I ever tasted," he sighed. Joe had insisted on preparing the entire birthday dinner himself, with assistance from Willa. All things considered, the evening was proceeding remarkably well.

Duncan lifted his wine glass first to Joe, seated beside him at the head of the table, and then to Willa, at the foot. "My compliments to the chefs. Where in the world did you get your ingredients?"

"The bar," Joe said. "I had a whole supply truck desperate to find anybody who'd accept delivery. Half the restaurants in town are out of power or closed for repair."

"Joe donated most of the food to the Red Cross," Willa spoke up.

Joe shook his head, embarrassed, and stared down the table at Willa. "That was supposed to be anonymous," he growled.

Willa took a sip of wine. "Was it?" she asked over her glasses.

Amanda leaned forward, suddenly interested, and Duncan followed her gaze. What he saw almost made him choke on his dinner. Joe was _blushing_.

Duncan suppressed a smile, picked up an almost-empty platter, and passed it to Richie. "Finish this off," he suggested. Richie happily helped himself to the last piece of beef.

"So what are you two going to call this new enterprise?" Duncan asked, steering the conversation to a safe topic.

"E&amp;R Hardware," Willa responded. "Edmondson and Ryan is too long."

"Willa's the brains, I'm the brawn," Richie said between bites. He flexed a bicep. Angie, who had been rather quiet for most of the evening, smiled and obligingly squeezed the muscle.

"You should do well," Duncan said. "There will certainly be a lot of people needing your help. And FEMA loans to pay for rebuilding."

"We'll focus on our own neighborhood," Willa said. "It's been coming back the last few years. Now we've got a second chance, we want to make the best of it."

"And what about your apartment?" Duncan asked Richie and Angie, although he already knew the answer. He had discussed the subject of living quarters with Willa earlier in the day, as soon as he knew she and Richie had agreed to a financial partnership.

"We'll have the whole second floor!" Angie beamed. "We're gonna move in and start working on it right away."

"You want to help with the plans, Mac?"

"If you like," Duncan said. At the very least, he wanted to check the security measures.

"Time for cake," Willa announced. She rose from her chair to clear the table. Richie and Angie, no doubt eager to do something other than make awkward conversation, hurried to help her. When Joe tried to stand, Willa rapped his shoulder with her knuckles. "Now don't be foolish," she chided. "There's no reason for you to be jumping up and down."

Once Willa and the younger couple were in the kitchen, Duncan put an arm around Amanda's shoulder and waggled his eyebrows at Joe. "Well?" he asked. "I leave you two alone in the kitchen for a few hours and this is what happens?"

"Yes, Joseph, do tell," Amanda said, sounding like herself for the first time since they had sat down to dinner.

"You two are fine ones to pry," Joe complained. "Can't a couple middle-aged folks have a harmless little flirtation?"

"She's not the type, Joe." Duncan smiled. "For that matter, neither are you."

Joe harrumphed. "I've flirted with plenty of women in my day!"

"And yet I've never once seen you blush," Duncan pointed out. "I didn't know you could." He was amused to see Joe redden again.

"Happy birthday!" Richie, Angie, and Willa paraded into the room with a small chocolate cake, four candles blazing.

Richie plopped the cake in front of Duncan. "We couldn't fit all the candles on," he explained solemnly.

"No doubt." Duncan looked up at the faces crowded around him, and reached for Amanda's hand. "Just let me make a wish." He closed his eyes and tried to settle on one thing he could ask for—something vital, but not beyond the bounds of reason. 'Let us be kin to each other,' he wished silently, and blew out the candles.

A small round of applause accompanied this feat, after which Willa efficiently sliced the cake into pieces. The table was quiet as everyone enjoyed the rich treat.

"Well," Willa said, picking up her plate, "I know it's early, but it's been a long day and I have church in the morning. I'll just wash up and be on my way."

"No one else washes in my house," Joe said, pushing himself up onto his artificial legs. "You can dry."

"All right," Willa agreed. She headed for the kitchen and Joe tottered after her.

When Richie rose to help, Duncan shook his head. "Let them be, Rich."

Richie sank back into his chair with undisguised reluctance. Angie reached for her wine glass and emptied it in one swallow.

"There's something we have to talk about," Duncan said, putting his hand over Amanda's. Before he could say anything more, Richie jumped in.

"But I don't know what to say!" Richie blurted. "'Thanks'? 'Sorry'? 'I can't _believe _I did those things'?"

Amanda made an exasperated sound and brushed aside Duncan's hand. She slapped the table in front of Richie. "You almost died because of me!" she said. "And what happened with Czeslaw was entirely my fault. I'm the one who got you mixed up in this, and I'm the one who's sorry."

She turned to confront Angie. "I don't care what he told you," she said haughtily. "It was my decision, I was in control of everything that happened, and there was not a thing he could have done about it. Period."

Angie's eyes narrowed. "I know," she said in a low voice. "But that was only because I didn't know what was going on. Richie doesn't need you anymore. Not for that."

Amanda sat back in her chair, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Agreed," she purred.

"Oh, Christ," Richie moaned, dropping his head into his hands.

Duncan couldn't help himself—he laughed. A moment later Amanda and Angie joined in. Finally even Richie looked up with a rueful smile.

"Now," Duncan said, clearing his throat pretentiously, "can we please get back to what _I _want to talk about?"

"Speak, Kemosabe," Richie intoned. Angie snickered.

A burst of laughter from the kitchen seemed to reflect the lightened mood. Duncan smiled and got up to shut the dining room door. Then he returned to his chair beside Amanda.

"I phoned Connor this morning," he said to Richie. "He's been trying to reach me, but wasn't able to phone in." He paused. "He's coming out here for New Year's."

"Oh, crap, Mac," Richie fumed, "what the hell did you tell him, anyway?"

In fact, Duncan had mentioned few details of Richie's confrontation with Czeslaw. "Connor's not worried about you, Rich," he explained. "He's worried about me. You see, I told him I want out of the Game. I want all of us out of the Game."

"What?" Richie sputtered in disbelief. His eyes widened. "C'mon, Mac, you're kidding me."

"Really?" Angie asked hopefully.

Duncan nodded in affirmation.

Richie blinked, shook his head, and turned to Amanda. "This isn't for real, is it?"

She shrugged philosophically. "He does mean it."

Duncan squeezed Amanda's thigh. He had explained his plans to her the night before. She had been skeptical but supportive—as if, Duncan thought, she knew he had no chance of success but saw no reason not to indulge his little fantasy.

Connor, on the other hand, had never found any use for indulgence.

Richie stood up, his face red. "This is because of me, isn't it? Because you think I can't hack it!"

"Now sit down," Duncan ordered in his best parental voice. Richie wavered on the edge of disobedience, sinking back into his chair only when Angie pulled at his sleeve.

"Yes, this is because of you," Duncan said. "The killing has to stop. I don't know why it ever started or what purpose it serves, but I know now that it's wrong. It doesn't speak well for me that I had to become a father to figure that out, Rich, but then I'm just a human being. Like you. Like all of us."

Richie raked his fingers through his hair. "Mac, you can't! Every immortal in the world will come after you!"

Amanda shifted beside him, and Duncan smiled, knowing what she was thinking. "So how is that different from what's already happening?" he asked. "I'm not going to stop training, Rich. I'll protect myself, just like you will. But there have to be other immortals who want a chance to live their lives in peace. I'm going to find them and talk to them about other solutions. That's all."

"What about the Rules?" Richie demanded. "What's gonna happen if you break them?"

Duncan didn't know the consequences of violating the Rules. But he was no longer too concerned about that. He took a breath. "I don't care," he said. "Because I know what happens if I follow them."

"Oh, man," Richie said quietly, closing his eyes and shaking his head.

Angie touched Richie's arm, and he looked up. "So what do you want me to do, Mac?"

"_You _are doing nothing—except living your life and honoring that oath you swore. You're not fighting anyone unless you absolutely have to. I expect you to keep your word on that, Richie."

"Well, duh," Richie said. "I didn't exactly think you were gonna forget." Duncan's glare quickly erased his mischievous smile.

"Connor must be really pissed," Richie mused. "What are you going to tell him?"

That much Duncan had figured out. "I'm going to ask him what he would have done if his Heather—or Rachel—had been an immortal."

Amanda smiled. "All the MacLeods are hopeless romantics, Richie."

Richie blinked at her. "Right," he said in a strangled voice. "Right, right, right." He pushed away from the table. "You know what? I need a smoke."

"Richie!" Angie protested, but he vanished into the living room, and a few seconds later the front door slammed behind him.

Duncan and Angie both rose to follow him. "Better let me talk to him, Angie," Duncan said. "I think I know what this is about." He grabbed his coat on the way through the living room and followed Richie out onto the porch.

Richie was just shoving a packet of cigarettes back inside his coat pocket. At the sight of Duncan, he sighed noisily and plunked to a seat on the porch steps. "Just lay off, Mac! Right now, this cigarette is the only thing that's keeping me from puking." He struck a match and lit the cigarette.

Duncan sat down beside him. "Well, it would be a shame to waste the best dinner we've had in ages."

Richie chuckled and took a long drag on the cigarette. It was a minute or two before he worked himself up to an explanation for his sudden exit. "Amanda never calls me Richie," he said. "Except...I just remembered the last time she did." He lifted one shoulder in a Gallic shrug. "She wasn't exactly whispering in my ear, if you catch my drift."

Duncan hooked an arm around Richie's neck and thought. "OK, so we tell her you prefer Richard," he proposed.

Richie laughed and exhaled a long stream of smoke. "I kinda think she knows me well enough for Richie," he said sheepishly.

The cell phone in Duncan's pocket buzzed. "Arrgh," he complained. "Sorry, Rich, but this might be Connor." He stood up and pulled out the phone. "Hello?"

It wasn't Connor. "Hey, MacLeod," Harry wheezed. "Just reporting in. I put the ashes in the Ogilvie family plot myself, just this afternoon. It's all taken care of."

"Thank you, Harry," Duncan said. "I'll be sending off a bonus."

"Cheers!" Harry said. "Merry Christmas, MacLeod."

Duncan rang off and tucked the phone away. He looked up at the night sky, where stars glittered, finally visible after days of smoke and clouds. "It's over, Rich. Czeslaw is buried with James's family."

Richie was quiet for a moment. "Not with James?" he asked, flicking ash into the shrubbery.

The question warmed Duncan. Was Richie getting some perspective on his homophobia?

He sat down again on the step. "I looked, but I couldn't find any record of James's burial. They don't bury suicides in consecrated ground."

"He killed himself?" Richie asked, surprised. "Shit. I didn't know that."

"It was a long time ago," Duncan said. "Amanda didn't know either, not until Czeslaw told her."

Richie rolled the cigarette between his fingers. "And you think Chet killed himself, too, Mac? You weren't just making that up?"

Duncan pushed his back against the porch railing and examined Richie. "You may have delivered the blow, but Czeslaw chose to take it. I'm sure of that."

Richie stubbed out his cigarette. "I don't get it. How come he didn't just take my head?"

Duncan took a deep breath. He hadn't expected this question, not so soon. "I think there must have been a lot of reasons, Rich. I can guess at a few. Czeslaw told me himself he didn't like to kill young immortals. And he was old, tired of the Game, sick of the pointless killing and what it does to us." He sighed. "He must have been frustrated, too, that he couldn't avenge James. That he'd failed him in every important way."

"But you don't think that's why." Richie, it seemed, could no longer be satisfied with partial answers.

"I don't know," Duncan said. "But the last thing Czeslaw said to me was that he didn't want to die as part of the Game. He wanted something more meaningful. Letting you live gave him that meaning. Maybe it was because you reminded him of someone he loved, or because he knew how much I wanted you to live, or because you made him feel ashamed."

"Ashamed? You mean because of..." Richie hung his head. "Because I propositioned him?"

"Not exactly. What you did was foolish, and ignorant, and _bigoted,_" Duncan emphasized. "But you did it out of love, even though you were afraid, and that proved Czeslaw was wrong about you, and about immortals. If we're capable of that kind of feeling, then there's no excuse for slaughtering each other as if we were nothing more than...than video game characters."

Richie didn't seem to know how to react to this combination of praise and scolding. He wrapped his arms around his knees and sat quietly, looking at the street. "Hey, Mac," he said, a minute later. "If Chet killed himself, doesn't that mean he shouldn't be buried in holy ground either?"

"Hmm." Duncan shrugged. "To tell you the truth, Rich, I never even thought about that."

Richie mulled over the problem. "I've got a feeling..." He tapped his chest, perhaps referring to Czeslaw's quickening. "I've just got this feeling that James is buried there, too. Like Chet buried him there even though he wasn't supposed to."

"Another rule-breaker?" Duncan wondered. "I hope you're right, Rich." He clapped a hand on Richie's shoulder. "Now can we please get in out of the cold?"

Richie shook his head. "Angie's gonna kill me for leaving her inside with Amanda."

"I wouldn't worry about it. Amanda can be very charming when she wants to be."

"Yeah," Richie conceded. "That I know."

Duncan laughed. "So why are we out here? Don't you and Angie plan to move into the store tonight?"

Richie nodded, but didn't budge from where he sat. "Mac, you remember when you said you and me were afraid of women? What did you mean by that, anyway?"

"Ah," Duncan said, understanding at last. "I didn't mean sex. I meant being close to a woman. Telling our secrets. That's hard for most men, harder for immortals. And for anyone who's been through what you have, Rich, it has to be harder still. Trust takes time. So don't push it. Angie will understand."

"It seems like it's so easy for her." Richie stopped, waved a hand, and corrected himself. "Not _easy_. But she's never afraid of it, even when she should be." He rolled his head back on his shoulders. "I mean, Mac, I could really mess her up big time. I didn't even know I could give her some disease. And I slept with her that night after the quake even when I knew I shouldn't."

"Rich, every couple in the city made love that night. That's what people do after life-threatening experiences. It's normal. And thank God for that."

Richie looked down at the sidewalk. "It didn't feel normal. It was just so intense." He laughed nervously, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "It was great. And it kind of...scared me."

Duncan draped an arm around him. "Look, this isn't universally true, and you have to promise not to quote me on it," he said. He waited for Richie's nod.

"Women are different from men, Rich. I'm not sure they need us in the same way we need them. But at the same time, they're more vulnerable, especially in the act of love. We don't have to be—we don't _want _to be—vulnerable, and so sometimes we never learn to let down our guard. But with the right woman, that kind of closeness can happen. And when it does, then sex becomes something more. Relationships become something more. That's worth a risk."

"I guess Amanda was right about the hopeless romantics, huh?"

"Hopeful," Duncan corrected. "Once you glimpse the possibilities, you can't help but be hopeful." He patted Richie's back. "Now, do you have protection for tonight?"

Richie grinned, his teeth flashing white in the darkness. "Protection? Mac, I'm the best-protected guy in the country."

"Then I'm doing my job," Duncan said. "Come on. Let's go face our greatest fears."

***

In the semidarkness of Joe's foyer, Richie helped Angie into her coat and then dragged on his own. He wasn't sure what the rest of the night might bring, but he was anxious now to get away and get on with it. Willa and Joe were already outside, chatting next to Willa's parked car. Amanda had graciously disappeared into the kitchen.

The_ kitchen, _Richie thought, bemused. That must be an all-time first.

"Thank you for coming," Duncan said. "I know it was hard for you. But it meant a lot to me."

"Sure, Mac," Richie said. "Happy birthday." He grabbed Angie's small suitcase and opened the front door.

When he looked back, he saw Angie staring up at Duncan, the two of them frozen in place, like melancholy figures in an old black-and-white photograph.

"My mom's burial is the Friday after Christmas," Angie said. "Will you come with Richie?"

Richie heard Duncan's quick intake of breath. "Of course I will," Duncan said. He took a step forward and enveloped Angie in his arms. She squeezed back for a moment before leaving his embrace.

Duncan kissed her cheek. "Take good care of Richie," he said, his voice rough.

"Mac," Richie warned, suddenly afraid that Duncan might feel it necessary to spell out all his weaknesses then and there for Angie's sake.

Duncan favored him with a knowing smile and reached to grip his shoulder. "And you take good care of her," he said solemnly.

Richie nodded and looked away, the unexpected lump in his throat making words impossible.

Then Duncan held the door, and Angie and Richie walked out onto the porch and down the stairs and climbed into the back seat of Willa's car. A few more quick good-byes and they were gone, the car silent but for Willa's soft humming and the purr of the car engine.

Richie put an arm around Angie's shoulder and stared out the window at a nearly full moon. So much had changed in just the last few days, and he wasn't at all sure he was ready for it. He was about to step out of this car, usher Angie into the store, and become, in the twinkling of an eye, both the lover and protector of a grown woman and the co-owner of a business. Didn't Angie know he wasn't ready? Didn't everyone?

"We're here, Richie," Angie said softly, her hand brushing his leg.

He opened the car door and retrieved Angie's suitcase from the trunk. Angie thanked Willa for dropping them off and the car rumbled away, leaving the couple standing on the sidewalk beneath the orangey glow of the streetlight.

"Are you OK, Richie?" Angie asked. "How do you feel?"

Scared, he wanted to say. Happy. Ashamed. Grateful. And so much more. "Tell you the truth," he said, "I feel like somebody picked me up by my feet, cut me open, and scoured out my insides with a Brillo pad."

Angie's mittened hand rubbed up and down his back several times before settling at his waist. "Let's sit for a while," she said.

Richie nodded and they sank down onto the single granite step before the entry. Though shoved off-angle by the quake, the stone was still in one piece. River Street was quiet except for the muted sound of Iranian folk music leaking from the boarded-over windows of Floyd's Restaurant.

For one fleeting second, Richie thought about picking Angie up and carrying her into the store. Then he realized that doing that would only remind them both that he could never really carry Angie "over the threshold." He sighed and passed a hand through his hair. "This is not exactly happily ever after, is it?"

Angie chuckled, exhaling a foggy breath into the cold night air. "I don't think real people get happily ever afters."

Richie smiled. "Wow," he said. He put an arm around her shoulder. "I never expected to be a real person."

Angie tucked her head beneath his chin just as a man and woman exited from Floyd's and turned down the sidewalk toward the hardware store. Recognizing them as two of the people who had helped dig out Rajiv's body, Richie lifted a hand in silent greeting. Angie sighed quietly.

Poor Rajiv. Richie had marveled at the way everyone had worked to save him, the way Willa had stood watch over his body, the way his mother had wept for him. He'd even been jealous of the friends who had turned out for the little boy's funeral.

Now he had all those things Rajiv had had. Mac was even willing to put his life on the line to try to save him from the Game. So what if it was a lost cause? Now Richie knew that he would be mourned—not just by Mac, but by Angie, and Willa, and Joe, and Anne, and others, too. He was a real person to them. _He was loved. _And he was getting a chance Rajiv would never have, a chance to make a home with a woman like Angie. It felt sinful to be so lucky because of the aftereffects of an earthquake that had cost both Rajiv and Mrs. Burke their lives. To be so lucky when both James and Czeslaw were dead.

Angie rubbed the broken brick that framed the door. "Richie, how long do you think it'll take to fix everything?" she asked.

"Me," he said, "or this place?"

"Our place," Angie said, rebuking him with a poke in the side.

_Our place, _he thought with warm pride. He liked the sound of that. "Dunno. There's a lot to fix, and I'll probably have to do most of the work myself." He and Willa might have access to materials through the store, but contract help was likely to be scarce while the city was being rebuilt.

"Maybe Duncan will help."

Richie could tell that Angie harbored a healthy skepticism about his ability to finish the job alone. "Yeah, sure." He captured her mittened hand in his. "It's OK. I know I need the help, Ange." He lifted her hand for a kiss before turning serious. "Just don't count on Mac ending the Game, OK? He's dreaming. He can't change the world all by himself."

"Hmm." Angie wrapped an arm around his waist. "But you said he wants to be your father. So he has to try. That's what dads do. Keep their kids safe."

"Yeah?" Richie jested. He wasn't entirely comfortable with this father-son stuff yet. "So how come your dad's not over here beating me into a pulp instead of letting you move in with me?"

Angie laughed. "Because he knows I'm a grown-up, and he wants me to be happy." She lifted Richie's hand from her shoulder, stood, and picked up her suitcase. "C'mon, Richie. Let's go in."

He unlocked the door and went in first to find the light switch. The overhead fluorescents flooded the space with cool, greenish light. They blinked at the scarred linoleum, cracked walls, and warped metal shelving surrounded by both boxed and unboxed debris.

Richie groaned and reached into his back pocket for the cashier's check he was still carrying around with him. He held it out for Angie's inspection. "You know, we could afford a five-star hotel." She didn't seem tempted. He winked. "Or we could always spend the night at the church."

Angie's face crinkled into a grin. "Tomorrow's Sunday, Richie. Do you really want to be the star attraction at early service?"

"Yikes!" He pulled comically at his hair. "Cancel that idea. I swore to Mac I wouldn't get myself killed. Not even by outraged ushers."

"Besides," Angie said, approaching to undo the toggles on his heavy coat, "I don't want a hotel. I'd rather be at home, alone with you."

Heat rose in Richie's cheeks, followed by a tightening in his chest. Even though they'd made love once before, that seemed like a lifetime ago. In this lifetime, he couldn't think about sex without also thinking about hurt. "Maybe we should wait, Ange. You know—until Anne gives me the all clear. I could sleep down here behind the counter. This coat of Mac's is way better than any sleeping bag."

"Sleep alone? With a _coat? _Are you crazy?"

"Probably." Richie shrugged. "Ange, I'm...nervous. Really nervous." What if he ended up using her the way he'd used Amanda? What if he gobbled up all her affection to fill that big empty hole inside him and didn't have anything to give in return?

Angie patted his chest. "It'd be normal if you didn't want to have sex after everything that's been going on. You might not want to for a while. That would be OK. Whatever happens, happens. But you are not sleeping by yourself. That's not why I'm here."

Her professional tone irked him. He didn't want to be Angie's patient. "But it would be smarter to wait," he said, testing her. "Don't you think?"

She shook her head, disappointed. "I think tonight is special," she said. "And I want to be with you any way I can."

Richie melted. "Yeah," he said huskily. "Yeah, me too."

They climbed arm-in-arm up the back stairs, stopping at the door to his room. He kissed Angie's temple before heading down the hall to the bathroom. "Make yourself at home. I've gotta brush my teeth—smoker's breath."

When he returned, the door to his room was open. He stepped inside and stared, mouth agape, wondering if he had stumbled into someone else's fantasy world. His desk and sofabed were gone, replaced by a solid-looking maple bed in a size too small to be modern. A matching dresser was squeezed beneath the small window, which had been draped with simple celery-green curtains. On a black painted table next to the bed glowed a brass lamp with an exquisite gold-and-green glass shade. Richie bit his lip. That was Tessa's lamp, the one that always sat on her bedside table. He hadn't seen it since that nightmarish day when he'd watched the movers pack all her things away. He'd never expected to see it again.

He turned and saw Angie sitting in a wooden rocker beside his old bookshelves. She left her dark corner, padding barefoot to him across an unfamiliar rag rug, wearing nothing but her bra and panties. He reached for her, and Angie hugged him close.

She looked up at him. "How did he do it?" she asked. "How could anybody buy furniture and move it in and set it up and make it so perfect in just a day?"

Richie caressed the warm curves of her back and let his hand rest possessively at her waist. "Mac didn't buy this stuff," he said. "They're all antiques. He must have gotten them out of storage and moved them in here himself while Willa kept me out of the way."

Angie walked to the bed and folded down the tapestry-patterned duvet, revealing a crocheted blanket and creamy cotton sheets. She sat down and reached up to touch the lamp shade. "Isn't it beautiful?" she said.

Though he longed to follow her, Richie stayed where he was, drinking in the sight of Angie, nearly naked, posed on his bed in a golden pool of light. Her dark eyes radiated happiness. "It's beautiful when it shines on you," he blurted. "The most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Angie smiled, not taking him seriously, and she reached back to unhook her bra. She let it slide down one arm and onto the floor. She opened her arms to him. "Richie."

He took a deep breath and slipped out of the heavy coat, remembering to place it and his katana within reach before he lost himself entirely. He joined Angie on the bed, cupping her breast like a precious gift and trailing hot kisses down her neck. Warmth flooded through his body. "But I mean it, Angie," he said. "I mean it. I love you so much."

"I think you're beautiful, too," she said, smiling. "So let's just see what happens, OK?" She began to work at his shirt buttons, gulping when Richie decided to occupy himself by tickling the inside of her thigh.

When she had finished with the buttons, Richie nipped at her ear. "This time," he said, "this time I want to show you how I feel _inside._" Last time he'd pinned her to the floor in the dark—just like Chet had entered the store that night and squashed him against the back counter like a bug.

"That's good," Angie murmured. "But take your shirt off anyway."

He laughed. He might be afraid, but Angie wasn't. She'd never learned to be. Thank God and Mr. and Mrs. Burke for that. He shucked off his shirt and bent to remove his shoes and socks.

Angie surprised him then by pulling him up off the bed, undressing him completely, and putting on the condom herself. Watching her, he grinned, reminded of the easy proficiency with which Angie had once dressed her dolls.

Afterward she pressed close to him and touched his face, encouraging him to look downward as her breasts brushed the thicket of hair on his chest. He gasped. Without conscious thought, his mouth found hers and his arms reached to pull Angie up onto her toes. She wrapped one leg around his thigh. The kiss deepened as Angie moved against him, whispering endearments, driving Richie into a state of blissful agitation. He lifted her up off the floor, jerked the sheets and blanket back, and placed her on the bed.

He leered at her lovingly and teased her by rolling her panties ever-so-slowly over her bottom, kissing and stroking each inch as he worked the fabric down her legs. He thrilled as Angie trembled visibly beneath his hands.

She reached for the lamp, and Richie panicked. "No!" he said sharply. He grabbed her hand, clenching her fingers tightly in his. "Don't!"

Hurt, Angie recoiled from him.

He sat up, took a ragged breath, and rushed to explain. "Ange," he said, "Ange, I want to see your face. I need to. So I can know what kind of love it is."

"Oh, Richie," Angie said. She pulled him down onto the bed to lie beside her. She stroked his hair. "I'm glad you told me, sweetheart." He was close enough to see the flush in her cheeks and the dewy sparkle in her eyes. "But that bastard didn't love you."

She wrapped both arms around his shoulders. "So don't be scared if I do, OK? I know you. You're not just a body to me. You're my favorite person in the whole world. You'll live two thousand years and make love to hundreds of women and someday you'll forget all about me, but you'll always be my true love. Maybe people can't have happily ever afters, but they can have true love. I still believe in that."

He lifted himself up on one elbow and smoothed a dark strand of hair from her face. Didn't she know how important she was? "How could I ever forget you, Ange?" He leaned in to kiss her tenderly. Her mouth tasted like tears and cabernet. "Even if I did live two thousand years, I couldn't forget you. A guy never forgets his first."

Angie chuckled and began to kiss along the line of his jaw. "I think you're still a little mixed up," she joshed affectionately. "But don't worry. You'll get your memory back eventually."

Richie eased her onto her back and knelt above her, studying her face against the pillow, framed by her black hair. "I don't mean sex," he said. "I mean you're the first woman who ever really loved me. The very first, Ange. No matter how long I live, I'll never forget that."

Angie wrapped her legs around him. "Now I know you're going to be all right," she said. They meshed, moving joyously into the unhurried rhythm of the immortal dance. "We'll be all right."

***

The pebbles rattling against the window pane at 3:00 a.m. came as no shock. Richie had always known that a man like Chet would not go unavenged. Nilsson would have seen to that.

He just wished he could have had a little more time.

He stole a moment to savor the picture of Angie sleeping beside him in the lamplight, her arms outstretched, her eyes darting beneath their lids, following a dream. He slipped from the bed and quickly dressed. The crackle of paper in his back pocket reminded him to leave the cashier's check on the dresser where it would be found. Worried that the check alone might not assure Angie's future, he found a pencil stub in another pocket and, on the envelope that held the check, he scratched "This is the last will and testament of Richard Ryan. I leave everything to Angela Marie Burke."

He removed the katana before shrugging into Mac's coat. His opponent might be honorable enough to wait for him to draw a sword, but he couldn't count on that. He had to be careful. He'd promised Mac that he wouldn't let himself be killed, and he meant to keep that promise. Of course, he'd also promised not to fight at all unless he absolutely had to, but how could he run when Angie was here asleep, a potential hostage?

He closed the bedroom door and trod silently down the stairs. On the bottom step he hesitated, struck simultaneously by the store's bright lights and the pulsating buzz of another immortal—an immortal who was tapping impatiently on the door. He walked to the front and opened the door.

"You're Ryan?" asked a dark, slender man with an unidentifiable accent.

He nodded.

"Where?" the other man asked.

"Down the street," Richie said, pointing toward the demolished building where Rajiv had died. "Is this about Czeslaw?" It was the first time he'd said Czeslaw's real name out loud.

The man grunted an affirmation and turned on his heel. Richie followed him, taking in his last view of River Street. _Damn, _he thought regretfully, I should have written something to Mac on that envelope. I should have told him I love him.

The other immortal disappeared into the shadows of the cordoned-off debris field. Cautiously, Richie followed. About ten yards in, his opponent stood waiting for him. "En garde," he grated.

Richie didn't lift his sword. I swore, he remembered. I swore on my father's blood that I'd do whatever I had to do to avoid a fight. Mac wouldn't give a damn whether I liked it or not. So if there's any chance at all that telling the truth might get me out of this, I have to give it a shot. After all, just 'cause this guy's a killer doesn't mean he's not a human being...

He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry," he said, meaning it. "I think I might have messed up. You want to know what happened?"

The other immortal was silent—the most favorable response Richie could have reasonably hoped for.

"Thanks," he said. "You better sit down. It's a long story."

 

_End_

 

"Where there is great love there are always miracles."  
  Willa Cather

  
  
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